Lost In Space
by SpadesJade
Summary: COMPLETE! Alternate Universe-At the beginning of the movie, Vincent gets into a different cab, not Max's. This is sort of a retelling of the movie, things are altered to fit the new character, who is NOT a MarySue. BONUS CHAPTER-Deleted Scenes!
1. Like Any Other Night

Disclaimer: Don't own Collateral.

A/N: There was a moment at the beginning of the movie when Vincent almost walked away from Max's cab. What if he kept walking? This is an AU tale. And it's only for fun. I haven't abandoned my other fic, Purity, but I can't seem to find it in me to finish it yet. I know how it's all going to turn out, but this fic wouldn't leave me alone after my fifth viewing of Collateral, so I had to get it down, and it was getting long, so I decided to post it. I hope you enjoy the ride. :)

1-Like Any Other Night

Callie walked into the garage, past where the other taxis were being tuned up, washed, routine maintenance. She gave a half-hearted wave to Lenny, who stood up on his platform, Jabba the Hutt with legs, a wire hanging from his ear across the wide girth of his belly and to his waist. Through the open door was their room, sparse but comfortable, wide benches, coke machine...she'd always watched the television show _Taxi_ when it was on _Nick at Night_, and had been amazed, her first day on the job, at how accurate that show had been.

Except for Danny DeVito in the cage. She had hoped for that, as he had probably been her favorite character on the series. Everyone else loved Christopher Plummer, or the guy whose name she could never remember, the one whose life they made a movie of, starring Jim Carrey-Andy Kauffman? But no matter. She was glad to be distinguished from the rest.

She always had a soft spot for the "bad guy."

"Hey Cal," came a soft, half-distracted call from the end of the bench. She looked over and saw Max bent over his evening crossword, waiting for his day-shift guy to come in with his cab. Dark skinned and soft spoken, Max usually kept to himself. She was one of the few he bothered to speak to.

"Hey Max," she said, sitting down across from him. The noise and hum from the garage outside would have deafened others. They were used to it. "How's it going? How's your mom?"

"The same," Max said, tossing her a smile. His gold-rimmed glasses seemed mildly out of place on his face, and she always got the feeling from him that he should be somewhere else. Not driving a cab. "So how about you, how's school?"

"The same," she answered. She fished in her pocket for some change, having a craving for the sludge they had the nerve to call coffee from the machine that only worked if you were lucky. She winked at him when he gave her a mildly reproachful look. "Not really, but hey. Sometimes I can't keep track of what day it is."

"Someday you are going to have to share with me your secret," Max said, filling in a few letters on the puzzle. "What's a six letter word for hate, begins with an L?"

"Loathe," she replied. "My secret? What secret?"

"How you do everything you do and still drive a night shift. What are you, twenty-three? You should be out dating, not driving the zombies of L.A. around all night."

She chuckled. "That's the difference between us, Max. I love my job."

He seemed genuine puzzled. "I still don't get that."

"You don't like your job, you should quit."

"That isn't it, I mean, I don't mind it. But you...what are you, double major? Criminology and Psychology?"

"With double minors in English and Creative Writing," she supplied. "I'm going to write a book someday."

"How many hours do you go to school?"

"Mostly my classes are between eight and noon, all week. Then I catch about a four hour nap, get up, eat dinner, head over here."

"Four hours? That's all the sleep you get?"

"Insomnia runs in the family," she said. "We've never needed a lot of sleep."

"They say that the higher the life form, the less sleep you need," Max said. "Could explain why you're so smart."

"The smartest cab driver in L.A.," she joked, finally finding enough quarters. As she stood up, Max looked toward the entrance, where his cab was coming in.

Clean as a whistle. Sometimes, Callie felt sorry for Max. He didn't have enough to do, so he kept his cab immaculate. She noticed hers, coming in a few cabs back. Relative clean, but she could already smell the tobacco and feel the nicotine residue on her fingers from the steering wheel. Neil had to stop smoking, it was going to be the death of him.

Max stood up. "See you tomorrow, Callie," he said, scooping up his crossword.

Callie gave him a wave over the shoulder as she went to get her coffee.

8888888888

People didn't appreciate the city. There was a kind of spectacular beauty to L.A. at night, on the surface, that no one stopped to notice. Especially from the freeway, coming in from the airport on the 110, heading North, toward Pasadena.

Her fare was a couple who had just come in from the airport, right from Indiana. They were visiting their daughter, who lived in Pasadena, and normally the woman would have picked them up, but tonight, as the couple told her, she was involved with stuff at her church, and Mom and Dad hadn't had the heart to tear her away from it, even to pick them up. They were fine with a cab.

Even though, by the time they reached their destination, it had gone a few dollars north of a hundred. And a twenty-dollar tip. She was appreciative, took their heavy bags out of the car for them, even though the gentleman almost insisted he do it, taking in her youth and assuming both suitcases would just be too much for her.

She didn't even chip a nail. Not that there was much to chip, she kept them trimmed low.

She headed for the hotels toward the downtown, having dropped the couple at a residence. Pasadena wasn't the best place for fares. People who needed taxis here usually called them. She swung by a Marriott by the Freeway entrance and caught a fare going to downtown L.A., and earned another healthy fare. Then she wound up making her rounds, and ended up at the Justice Building, pulling up in a rather long line that was moving through pretty fast.

She was pulled up behind Max. She recognized him because he was turned, talking to the woman in his back seat, and apparently quite engrossed in the conversation. When the woman got out, Callie could easily see why.

She was beautiful, with long, straight black hair, and a sharp figure. Obviously a lawyer, from the briefcase and the way she carried herself. Then, to Callie's surprise, the woman stopped half-way to the door, took something out of her purse, and went back to the cab. 

Callie saw it happen. The woman gave him her card.

She could see Max shaking his head in her headlights. She couldn't help but smile. Poor Max. She'd gotten to know him, a little bit, from the brief times they'd sat together, drinking coffee, doing a crossword (him doing it, her helping him whenever he got stuck) and found him to be a really nice guy. He wasn't like eighty-percent of the cab drivers around here, who were sloppy in their style and in their manners. He had class, and brains.

Probably one of the reasons they had always gotten along so well. But he wasn't happy. He'd talked, once upon a time, about starting up his own company, but hadn't gone into too much detail. And then his mother was sick; from their brief conversations on that topic, his mother was not pleasant even when she was well.

Callie adjusted her rearview. Slow spot, soon there would be fares, they'd get moving again. She sometimes wondered if she should move to Vegas, or maybe even Chicago. Cab driving there was a fine art, and having personality was only a plus. Nobody ever wanted to talk out here, only the tourists. Never the locals. Nobody ever knew each other out here, and nobody cared.

But no, she still loved this place. It was her home. Her mother was buried here, her father was retired here, and her brother lived and worked here as a detective in the L.A.P.D. narcotics division. Leaving would be like cutting out her heart and leaving it on a street corner. It simply was too hard a thing to imagine.

A man came out of the building. He was sliding sunglasses off his face, and approaching Max's cab. He leaned down, into the passenger window, but then looked away, pulled back, and started walking toward her.

Max was distracted. Apparently that woman had really taken it out of him. Callie smiled again, this time to herself, and waited for Max to call the man back.

He didn't.

The man reached her window, leaned in on one arm. "Hey," he said, his smile subtle at first, then widening when he got a look at her.

What a smile. Coupled with a silvery-gray suit and a lower-face-full of facial hair that looked like salt and pepper, he was a striking figure. His hair was also gray, but his face had rather young features, the kind of smooth, chiseled look of someone who was handsome and knew it, yet wasn't arrogant about it.

Yet it was his dark green eyes that pinned her in place, not bothering to tell him that Max was probably the better bet, since he was first in line. No, she would take this fare, and apologize to Max later. Considering he'd just gotten a very foxy lady's number, he would understand.

"Hi," she replied, keeping it low key. "Where you headed?"

"452 South Union," he said.

"Come on, I'll take you. Max is a little out of it right now."

He gave her a tighter smile, nodded, got into the back. She pulled out behind Max, drove off, not worrying about how annoyed he might be at her.

8888888888

"So how long do you think this will take?" he asked her. He had a nice voice, low-key, calm, slightly gravelly. He was messing with something in the black briefcase he carried, looked like it might have been some kind of oversized palm-pilot. One of the few "typical-girl" traits she still carried was her lack of knowledge about cutting edge technology.

"Less than ten, more than five," she answered, weaving in and out of some late night traffic, people half-asleep at the wheel. She briefly looked down at the clock. It was about twenty after nine.

He seemed to be satisfied with this answer. Went back to his work. Glanced up at her again, taking in her appearance. He'd gotten a better look from the front window before, but now he could admire her at a bit more leisure.

She was reasonably attractive, he thought, most definitely so for a cab driver. Young, too. Somewhere in her mid-twenties. Her long hair was pulled back into a French braid, which was partly tucked underneath a hat with a wide, blooming crown and a visor like a baseball cap, only made out of blue suede. From his frontal view, he'd seen that she had a suede coat, too, made out of fitted yellow-brown leather and low riding jeans, revealing an inch and a half of belly covered in some kind of dark green shirt. She wasn't unnaturally thin, like the supermodels on the billboards above him, or even the girl in the Bacardi Silver advertisement that crowned almost all the yellow cabs in this town. She had a nice, modest roll of belly that puckered out just a little over her hips, natural, soft, where the shirt disappeared into the waistband of her jeans. He caught the flash of a sweater underneath her coat, and a shirt underneath that - it was a California thing, particular Southern California, dressing in layers like that.

Now, watching her from the back, he could see that her hair was a natural, almost mousy brown, but it had been streaked with lighter, honey-colored brown, giving her an exotic touch. The most admirable part about her, though, was the complete lack of jewelry or make-up. Fashionable girls who dressed like her also put on three layers of lipstick, eye-shadow, mascara as thick and black as Egyptian kohl, and big gold hoop earrings. He rather preferred her natural look.

The silence settled over them, and was broken by the deep hum of a cellular phone. She reached toward her waist to pull it out, turning it on by flipping it open.

"Hey Ray," she said. There was the tinny sound of someone talking on the other line. He didn't get how people could stand cellular phones. He found them obnoxious and ugly. Not to mention, he didn't really like talking on the phone. He had his own text-message phone, tucked into his pocket, and did all his communicating that way. Numbers on both sides, it was fancy enough for him.

"No, on a fare," she was saying. A pause as she listened. "I go every night, Ray, it's okay if I miss one night." Pause. "I'm sorry, I know you've got work, too, but Dad will be fine for one night. Look, I've gotta go right now, I'm working, I'll call you back on my break if you're free. Bye." And she hung up the phone.

"Husband?" Vincent asked.

She laughed, a bit loudly. "No, my brother."

"Ah. I figured the 'Dad' meant one or the other."

"Yeah, definitely the other. I'm not married." She said it with a throwaway casualness that Vincent saw through. He smiled. Generally, women seemed to find him attractive, and it was something he had never really argued with.

"You and your brother close?" he asked.

"Pretty much, yeah. We help take care of our dad."

"You can't be that old. How old is your dad?"

"I'm twenty-five," she said. "He's sixty-five. I was their last-minute miracle." She tossed him a friendly smile into the rearview, but stayed focused on the driving. He gazed back at her, listening.

"So your brother can't make it over tonight and is putting it all on you, then?"

She shrugged. "He's not that bad. I usually go over anyway, during my break. Even if I can't, he's over there, but he's busy tonight."

"What does your brother do?"

"He's a cop," she said, with just a touch of embarrassment.

Vincent almost flinched, stopped himself. No way he was going to even risk a cop coming anywhere near him.

"What about your mother?"

"She died about ten years ago. Cancer."

Vincent considered this. "You were young," he said, his tone sympathetic. "Fifteen."

"Yeah. It was a rough time." Casual again, almost evasive. To her it was a simple fact, an afterthought.

"Well, you're lucky you knew her," Vincent said. "I never knew my mother. She died when I was too young to remember her."

She looked at him in the rearview again. She had real sympathy in her eyes, not his synthetic substitute. "I'm sorry."

He smiled a half-smile, nose back against his work-ups. "Don't worry about it. It was a very long time ago."

"I know what you mean." She turned, swerved to miss someone who attempted to run a red light, righted them as if nothing had happened, and turned back to him in the mirror.

"So what about you? You're awfully young to be driving a cab," he said, his voice still that low-key drawl, but interested, not just making casual conversation.

"I'm in school. College, at USC. Double major, it's taking a while to get everything done, and I can't go full time and work, so..." she trailed off, distracted by a few drivers in the lane to her left that seemed to nearly have a rear-end collision.

"What are your majors?"

"Criminology and Psychology," she said, making a turn through a yellow light as it went to red. Orange, they called it.

"Interesting." His voice perked up a bit, and she noticed the change in her rearview. He had stopped looking altogether at his computer, the plastic pointer lodged between his fingers like a pen. His eyes pinned her again with that same intensity as before. She felt a slight shiver of discomfort that wasn't all that uncomfortable. "So what are you planning to do with that?"

"Criminal psychology," she said. "There are lots of different fields. I'll have to get my masters, probably enroll in another school...maybe have to leave L.A., depends on what happens. Maybe I'm just delaying the moment."

"Maybe you are. So you're interested in criminals? Catching them or understanding them?"

"More like understanding them," she said, and her tone suddenly switched to dismissive, as she felt the terrible urge to change the subject. "But I really don't want to leave L.A. Is this your first time here?"

"No," he said, shaking his head, lips curling in mild disgust. "But I don't like having to come here. Every time I do, I can't wait to leave."

"Hmm." She seemed a little taken aback by this comment.

"You seem to like it, though," he said.

"I love the city," she said softly. "Especially at night."

"That why you drive your shift at night?"

"Yeah. Even if it's just appearance, the city is beautiful then."

He nodded, then half-shrugged. "I don't know....this place is so disconnected. The fifth biggest economy in the world and nobody knows each other? I heard this story about a guy who gets on the MTA, has a heart attack, dies." Another twitch of his lip, a shake of his head. "Six hours before anybody realizes it, and his corpse has been doing laps around the city, people on and off, sitting next to him...nobody notices." He gazed out the window, sighing.

She glanced up at him again. She had hazel-colored eyes, which seemed to shift from blue to green to brown in the light. At the moment, they were a soft, toffee brown. "Well," she said, "some of us try hard to notice."

He gave her a half-smile, went back to his work.

8888888888

They pulled up a few minutes later. "452 South Union," she announced as she put on the break.

Vincent glanced around. It was a relatively deserted area, not in the sense of people, but there wasn't a lot of public transportation around. He couldn't stick around here, not after he did his work. And she was still a cab. He could just ask her to wait, let her keep the meter running, tip her extra.

He put his equipment back into his briefcase and leaned forward to ask her, but as he caught her eyes, something in him hesitated.

She was pleasant company, after all. And if things went well, nobody would ever be the wiser.

"Look," he said, "I'm in town for one night, closing a real-estate deal. I've got five stops to make."

Her eyes were hesitant. She already seemed to know where this was going.

"Why don't you hang with me? For a bit, anyway."

She shrugged uncomfortably. "It's against regulations," she admitted. "We can't hire out cabs."

He laughed. "I should have expected that from a criminology major," he teased lightly. "How much do you make in a night?"

"Three, maybe four, if I hustle," she replied, unsure.

He leaned back a bit, flipping, like a deck of cards, six brand new hundred dollar bills. Her eyes widened a little and her smile faded when she saw them. "I'll pay you six hundred. One hundred per stop, the last one being L.A.X., and an extra hundred if I don't have to run for the plane."

She squirmed. "Look, I can wait for you out here, but I'll have to keep the meter running. After that, well..."

He smiled at her, turning on the charm. He pulled himself closer, slipping three hundreds back into his pocket, and palming the other three.

"What, you going to pass up twice your nightly fee for a little qualm of conscience? Nobody ever has to know."

She sighed, deeply. "I don't want to get in trouble."

"You won't." He paused. "Besides, a girl like you is too good to be driving cabs around, anyway. Fuck 'em if you do get in trouble, you probably don't even need your job, you could get another in a heartbeat. Pretty girl like you." He winked at her, just for good measure.

At first, she responded with a very "yeah, right" sort of look, but then she was chewing the inside of her cheek. She let out a deep sigh. "I guess...yeah."

"Great." He pressed the three hundred into her hand, his fingers closing around hers, noticing that her hands were warm, unlike the cold fingers of a dozen other women he'd known in his lifetime. "Here's three now, and three when we get to the airport, plus the bonus." He glanced at her license. "Callie?"

"Yeah."

"That's an unusual name."

"Short for Calliope," she admitted, the hundreds in her palm, crunching with their new folds.

"Is that Greek? You don't look Greek."

"My great, great-grandmother was, on my mother's side." She looked back up at him, struggling to be polite, not wanting to examine his money right in front of his face. "Mom was really, really fond of her."

He smiled, reached out, squeezed her shoulder. "Well, I'm Vincent. And thanks, Callie. Trust me, it will be worth it." And he climbed out of the cab.

"Hey," she called as he closed the door. "I can't stay double parked here. I'll have to meet you in the alley behind the building."

He nodded. "Fine." And he headed into the building.

Callie watched him go. She glanced into the backseat, having noticed he didn't have anything with him as he went. His briefcase was sitting there, expensive black leather.

"Some people," she muttered, but she was smiling. It was almost refreshing, to see that kind of naïveté in someone who came across as so hardened.

She drove around back, pulled into the alley, and waited. 


	2. And You Throw A Hissyfit

Disclaimer: Not mine, although you'd think I was trying to take it over by all the fanfic I keep compulsively writing.

2--And You Throw A Hissyfit

Calliope Fanning, known as Callie to everyone who knew her, waited, sitting back in her seat, pulling the brim of her cap down over her eyes. She had been warned, on occasion, not to do this, but her windows were up and her doors were locked, and she wasn't particularly worried.

People who had never been mugged generally didn't worry, not until it was too late.

She considered munching on the snacks she'd brought with her, but the most appealing thing at the moment was her Snickers bar, and she didn't want to get herself hyped up on sugar at the moment. It would just pique her irritation at Ray.

Ray. _Detective_ had gone to his head. It had been bad enough when he'd been a street cop, coming home all the time in his uniform, badge shining. He was seriously trying to make his way through the ranks, and succeeded. Now, he dressed like an undercover cop, hair slicked back, long brown trench coat. She constantly berated him for it, but he insisted that if he was going to work the narcotics division, he had to blend in with the street life.

That was Ray. Total chameleon. Could be whatever you wanted in a blink of an eye. He'd had a girlfriend, briefly, but it hadn't worked out, and now he didn't seem to have anything else to do with his time except bug her about finishing school and getting a real job, and if she was going to visit Dad during her break.

Of course, she knew that right now, he was on a big case, and that always made him tense. More obnoxious and difficult to bear than usual. But still, she loved him. In spite of the fact that he was an asshole.

There was a rap at the back window. She ducked her head, saw Vincent standing there. It had only been a little over five minutes. She clicked the unlock button and he opened the door, sliding in.

"Any problems?" he asked.

"Not a one. How about you?"

"Other than a close encounter with a window," he said with a bit of a smirk, "no, no problems at all."

"So where to now?" she asked.

"7567 Fountain," he said.

"West Hollywood," she said, her fingers tapping at the computer's screen buttons.

He asked, "How long do you think that will take?"

He was very conscious of the time. He reminded her a little bit of Ray because of that. "About twenty minutes, give or take," she said.

"Sounds good. Let's go." So she put the car in drive and went.

8888888888

This drive was longer than the last, and Vincent turned chatty. Not that he hadn't been before, but now he was getting personal, asking questions that she nearly felt comfortable asking.

Did she have a boyfriend? Why was she so interested in criminal psychology? What exactly did she plan to do when she finished school? Did she have any particular graduate schools in mind? Had she traveled much? What kind of music did she listen to?

Discomfort or not, she found herself answering them all. It was a very easy flow of conversation, and he'd even leaned forward, one arm partly looped over the front of the seat so he could hear her better without her having to turn her head and take her eyes off the road.

"No boyfriend?" he asked. "I find that hard to believe."

She chuckled. "No, no boyfriend, but I warn you, I'm quite used to my customers attempting to flirt with me, and I assure you, I'm quite immune."

He smiled, laughed. A big, toothy grin. She noticed that the center of his front teeth was actually a little to the left. He was well manicured, the way his one hand grasped the back of the seat. She liked men who took good care of their hands. So many were so grimy and sloppy, jagged nails.

Truth be told, it had been one of the things about her current pursuer that kept her interested.

"So if you're so used to your customers flirting with you, then you must be aware of how charming you are."

She gave him quite a look. "Laying it on thick, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry," he said, his expression only mildly contrite, but still smiling. "I don't get to meet a lot of pretty girls in my line of work. Well, I do, in real estate. Just most of them are married. Single girls don't generally buy houses."

"No, they don't," she said. "That's usually something reserved for couples."

"We single people live in apartments. Or condos, depending on how much money you have."

She laughed. "Well, none here, I'm afraid. Although my dad keeps talking about leaving the house to me when he dies. I always make him change the subject, it's too morbid."

"Well, it's only natural to think about those things," Vincent said, relaxing a bit, sounding less flirtatious and more serious. "I mean, his wife has passed on, I'm sure you and your brother are all he has to think about now." Then he sobered, glancing out the window, very serious. "Funny thing about marriage...sometimes, after the first one goes, the second one just wants to follow."

"Yeah, we went through that," she said softly. She shook her head, tossed him a smile. "So I take it you have a condo," she remarked.

"Definitely. Are you an apartment girl, or do you live in a dormitory?"

"I live in school housing, it's not really like a dormitory, but it's much cheaper than renting an apartment. Especially around the campus, you wouldn't believe how expensive things are out here."

"Oh, I would," he said. "Never ceases to amaze me how poor people can afford to live where they do, in the conditions that they do, and yet put up with the prices they have to pay for it."

"Sometimes we don't have any choice," she said.

"No. Same thing goes for crime, really," he went on, letting go of the seat and leaning back, talking loud enough for her to hear, but now on a personal roll. "I mean, think about it - the kids that grow up there, what do they see? So they want out, naturally. But when they go to school, they can't get good grades because they can't get help with their homework, they can't afford tutoring, and they can't get enough sleep at night and eat regular enough meals to be ready to learn the next day. Plus, the only examples of adulthood they have are just bigger versions of themselves."

"There are ways around it," she said, feeling mildly defensive. "School systems offer free tutoring, breakfast, lunch, clothing if they need it. The schools do everything but give the kids showers and places to sleep."

"Maybe it would be better if they did," Vincent commented, looking out the window. "What can you expect from a kid who grows up without a mother and a drunk for a father?"

She grew thoughtful. "I guess some of us are just really lucky, then," she said, more to herself.

"Yeah, you are," he said, turning back to her. She looked into the rearview. He was smiling at her, gently. There was a deep sadness in his eyes, and it touched her.

"You look like you made it out," she said, trying to be of some comfort. "I mean, whatever your background. You seem to be doing pretty well."

He made a soft grunt in the back of his throat and looked down. "I'm doing what I can," he agreed. "What I do best."

"I guess..." she trailed off, wanting to say something about how being deprived left wounds that sudden influxes of material goods couldn't make right again. She'd known too many kids in school who were so messed up, getting older and wealthier didn't serve any other purpose than to make them even colder on the inside, more out for themselves, rather than trying to help others have the good life they now enjoyed.

"You guess?" he prompted.

"Well, society can't fix everything," she said.

"No." His eyes turned sharp. "It most certainly can't. In some ways, it makes things much worse."

She had to shrug. "Sometimes. But it's better than anarchy."

"Really?"

"Sure. I mean, everyone out for themselves? Think of it. The violence that would come out of it, everyone being a law unto themselves? Judge, jury, executioners. We have enough murders every day in L.A. without going that far."

"Survival of the fittest. It's the way of Nature," he said.

"Maybe," she agreed. "But still, I like to think of human beings as being more than slaves to their natural instincts."

"The lucky ones are," he said. "So that's why you want to be a criminal psychologist? Want to try and convert criminals into being better people?"

"Is that such a bad thought?" she asked.

"No, not bad. But probably..." Now he trailed off, hesitating. "No, not bad at all," he finished. Just then she turned the corner and their building loomed into view.

8888888888

Another alley. This one was much more deserted, and she shut the car off after she had parked. It made her a little uncomfortable, thinking of sitting here, alone, in the dark. It wasn't as well lit as the other alley before, even if it was in a better neighborhood.

She glanced at the clock. It was almost ten now. It wasn't that late. Real trouble wouldn't start until the graveyard hours. She calmed herself, waited patiently as Vincent shuffled in his briefcase, pulled out something rather official-looking, and got out of the car without so much as a word.

She locked the doors behind him, watched him go inside. Earlier, she had looked at the hundreds he'd given her. They were real, brand new mint, complete with the little sparkles in the corners and the double head on the far right side of the bill, impossible to counterfeit. Obviously this guy had some serious change to throw around.

Which made her criminology-tuned mine suspicious.

She'd seen her fair share of mob personalities and he just didn't strike her as that type. But the briefcase, the suit, the sunglasses he would slip on his face as he stepped into the light outside...

She shook herself. She was being slightly paranoid. Sure, she lived in L.A., but he'd been polite enough to her, and hadn't done anything so far that could back up her suspicions, so she decided to let it go. She let it go so much that she leaned back in her chair, adjusted her shoulders, and let herself rest for a moment.

It was okay, the doors were locked.

There was a tapping at her window. She looked up, saw the face of a man, not much older than her, with a natty beard and long, greasy hair. He looked like a Kid Rock wannabe. He pushed a lock of the stringy hair behind his ear and grinned at her, wiggling his fingers, motioning for her to roll down the window.

She was an L.A. cabdriver. She gave him the finger and shook her head.

His smile, which hadn't been pleasant to begin with, disappeared and darkened into an angry scowl. He reached back into his pocket and slammed something large and metal onto the glass, making it crack.

He struck again. It shattered, sending glass over her shoulder, onto her lap, and all across the pavement. Then the barrel of his gun was staring her in the face.

"Fucking bitch," he was saying, "you wanna give me attitude? I'll make you fucking blow me!"

Her hands had flown up instinctively to shield her face, and she slowly lowered them, wondering how she could have been so stupid. He'd caught her completely off guard, although what the hell she'd been expected to do, she had no idea.

"What do you want?" she managed, her voice maintaining some semblance of strength, even as the gun loomed close to her temple. Stupid idiot, he carried it to the side, like out of a movie, trying to look cool. You never held a gun like that in real life.

"Gimmie your fuckin' purse, bitch," he said.

She reached down to comply, trying not to show that she was actually relieved. She never carried her credit cards in it. Her purse was just pure decoration, holding tampons, Kleenex, lip balm, and her reading glasses. Her driver's license was wedged up in the visor above her head, ready to hand over if an officer should request it, and the money Vincent had given her, she'd shoved into her back pocket.

"Your fuckin' fares, too, bitch, hand 'em over!"

She went to the glove compartment, to the bag where she kept them. She handed it over to him, and he found the lock.

"Where's the fuckin' key, bitch?"

She almost sighed. He couldn't come up with anything more original than _bitch_? She'd gotten worse on the playground when she was seven. She reached for the keys, pulled off the small one that unlocked the bag, handed it to him.

"What else you got for me?" he grunted, going to the back seat. She flipped the unlock switch so he wouldn't have to shatter that window, too, He opened the door, and said something very stupid, like, "Ooh, jackpot!" taking the briefcase with him.

She felt her stomach sink. No doubt, Vincent was going to be very pissed.

And speak of the devil.

The Kid Rock wannabe had just slammed the door shut and stepped to the side of the cab. He wagged his gun at her one last time, said something moronic, pretending to fire at her, and tromped off, another guy joining up with him a few feet up the alley.

Callie looked up, saw Vincent step out into the alley, through the door. The clipboard he'd been carrying was gone, and he was empty handed. This would have struck her as strange if she hadn't been suffering from a mild adrenaline high. Vincent glanced back at her, then stepped toward the twosome.

"Hey, homie," he called. "Is that my briefcase?"

The skinny guy turned, then flounced back to him, run raised and pointed at his face. "Yeah, it is! You got anything else for me? How about your wallet?"

Vincent slowly raised his hands into the air. It happened so quickly after that, it was just a silver-gray blur to her eyes. Somehow he managed to slap down the younger kid's gun, pull out one from somewhere at his waist, and shoot the kid twice in the chest. Then, he spun on the other, shot twice in the chest and once in the head. As the kids lay there, the one who had mugged her still alive, Vincent reached down, picked up her purse, his suitcase, and then casually, like an afterthought, without even looking at the guy, shot him right in the forehead.

He was definitely dead after that.

Vincent walked back toward the cab.

At this point, Callie wasn't sure what to do. Part of her knew that to get out of the cab and run was a stupid idea, he would just shoot her in the back. The other part knew it was equally stupid to sit there and make herself an easy target. She shrunk back into the seat with each of his approaching steps, though, as if by some miracle she could just suddenly disappear, become invisible, melt into the seats and never be heard from again.

She actually thought, for a moment, that she was going to faint.

He walked up to the passenger side. She had hit the unlock button before, and she couldn't remember, suddenly, where the lock was to keep him out. He opened it up, threw his briefcase in the back seat, and slid into the passenger seat beside her. He gently set her purse down beside her on the seat.

"You okay?" he asked, his eyebrows raised, his expression filled with concern. She didn't have enough wits about her to determine whether it was genuine or just a facsimile.

She just stared back at him. Her jaw had gone slightly slack, hanging open a little, and she was taking in small breaths of air through her mouth. Her chest felt tight, and it was a laborious process.

Vincent looked past her, toward the window. "He break the window?" he asked.

"Yeah," she breathed.

His eyes focused on her. He seemed unsure of what to make of her, unsure of her reaction, waiting for her to say something, anything, and give him a clue.

"You...shot them," she said, swallowing to moisten her throat.

"They mugged you," he said. "And me. They would have shot me if I hadn't shot them."

She looked down, toward his lap, as if the gun would be sitting there, in plain sight. Her eyes traveled to his waist, to where his gray coat hung open, and she thought she saw a slight bulge over one hip. "You're carrying a gun," she said, her voice coming just a little bit easier as shock wore off and panic started to set in. "You're in L.A., and you're carrying a gun."

He nodded. "Yes. I am."

"You don't carry a gun here in L.A. unless you're a cop or a criminal," she said. "What the hell are you doing carrying a gun if you're a real-estate agent?"

"I never said I was a real-estate agent," he replied, calm.

"You said you were closing a real-estate deal-"

"That's what I said."

"And you need a gun to do that?"

"It can be a tough business." His look had softened, as if he'd figured her out, and knew exactly how to handle her.

She realized that in the process, she had seized hold of the steering wheel and her knuckles were turning white. She forced herself to let go, but it was a mistake. Her hands had been taking the damage her stomach had been trying to ignore. It heaved inside her, although there wasn't anything to heave, as she hadn't eaten in at least six hours.

"I'm going to throw up," she said, turning to the door and fumbling with the latch. Gently, he reached over and took her hand, enclosing it in his. He pulled her back, his arm warm across her chest, his fingers against her skin, not letting her get out but not forcing her, either.

"The window is open. You've got air. Just breathe, it will pass. You're stressed, it's natural, after what just happened."

She took big gulps of air. He reached into the back seat, produced a large bottle of water. "Here, it's cold, drink some of this." He opened it. She took it and took a tentative swallow, thinking only afterwards that there might be something in it. She looked at him suspiciously.

"You killed them," she said again.

"I did. They would have killed me."

She shook her head. "They were stupid punks. That gun was just for show."

"Then why did you let them have your purse?" Vincent asked.

"It was easier. There isn't anything in it anyway. I put your money in my back pocket." She considered, her brain calming just a little bit. "They took my fares, though. You didn't happen to see them, did you?"

He glanced out the windshield toward the bodies. "No. But I don't want to leave you until I'm sure you're all right."

She looked at him, feeling a giddy sense of sarcasm. _He didn't want to leave her because she might bug out of there, like a smart girl._ "You just killed two men in cold blood and you're worried about _me_ being all right?"

He gave a small sigh. "Cold blood implies I didn't have a reason. I did have a reason. They tried to steal from us."

_Us._ Together. Solidarity. He was wooing her to his side, trying to get her to sympathize with him. She took more deep breaths, her chest rising and falling.

Then he scowled at her, his impatience starting to show. He looked away, out the window, and said, annoyed, "They put a gun in your face, robbed you _and_ me-I shot them out of pure self-defense, and _you_ throw a _hissyfit_."

"I'm going to call my brother," she said, reaching into her pocket for her phone.

His hand landed on hers again, this time with a much more aggressive grip. "Don't do that."

"He's a cop. He'll know what to do."

"Even so. Don't call him."

"But I have to. This is a crime scene. Sure, you can argue self-defense, but we have to call the police-"

His grip became so tight she felt her bones push together. It was nearly painful. "I said. _No cops_." Low, dangerous. He glared at her sidelong, his dark eyes catching the faint streetlight from outside and glowing their smoky emerald green.

"My brother-"

"You're going to have to forget about running to your brother this time, Callie. You gotta deal with that. Sorry," Although he didn't sound like he really meant it. He'd taken a very frank tone, now, no bullshit from him. Although he still seemed to want to play it nice. He could, after all, have easily shot her by now, too.

She took a last, deep breath, and calmed. She put her hands in her lap, surprised to find that he let her go to do it.

"So what do we do, then?" she asked, her voice soft.

"You pop the trunk," he said. "We can't leave them here."

She closed her eyes, shook her head, felt dizzy enough to vomit again. She second she got out of the car, she might not make it three steps. Then again, she felt a strange kind of resilience in her. As if her brain were telling her to get used to this kind of shit, if it was going to be her life's work.

With the exception that she planned on being one of the good guys.

"We're going to put the bodies in the trunk," she said, clarifying.

"Yes," he said. "Let's go."

She just sat there for a moment, looking at him, shock making her movements sluggish.

"I said," he repeated, "Pop. The. Trunk."

She reached under the dash, found the button, popped it. There was a slight commotion from the building beside them, and for a moment, Vincent froze, listening. Then, he motioned for her to hurry, quickening his own pace.

"Come on," he snapped, although it was more forceful than angry, "let's go."

She realized he was keeping her just in front of him. Watching her. He kept looking around, especially at the building. Just looking, everywhere, every which way, down the alley, up the alley, back at the car, at the door he'd come out of. It was like a twitch.

Funny...she had never met a flesh-and-blood criminal before, at least, not one that was still free in the outside world and going about his business. All her criminal meetings had been with men safely locked away behind bars, telling her their stories for whatever project she was working on that week. Some men in prison will open up to a pretty girl - not that she'd never considered herself pretty, but anything with a vagina qualified as a beauty queen in that place. Some of them tried to intimidate her, true, tried to wow her with their shocking exploits, gross her out with lurid details. None of it had really bothered her. She'd welcomed all of them, really, wanting to harden herself to it.

It was even funnier, how calm she felt as the night air enclosed her and she got closer to the two dead punks. She saw her locked pouch lying on the concrete about a foot away from where it had fallen out of the Kid-Rock lookalike's pocket. The other kid reminded her of a skinhead, with half the brains and twice the decoration.

"That one, grab the feet," Vincent ordered. She looked up, saw that the cab was much closer than she'd realized. The walk had just felt longer, that was all.

She grabbed him by the ankles. Vincent got the kid under the arms, encircling his chest, the head lolling against the gray lapels of his jacket, and they carried him, a bit quickly, to the trunk, where Vincent unceremoniously dumped him in. He motioned for her to go back.

"Why me first?" she asked. "I didn't shoot them."

He gave her a very deadpan look. She turned and walked, cursing under her breath. Stupid kid had gotten blood on her jeans. These were her favorite jeans. Fuck them if they ruined her shirt, she wasn't going to let any of their slimy blood ruin her favorite jacket. She got the ankles again and helped Vincent with the second haul.

Two dead bodies in a trunk was quite a bit. Vincent reached up to his collar, unbuttoned the top button, and took of the thin, gray tie that hung there. He threw it in on top of the mountain of dead human flesh, and then slammed the trunk shut.

"All right, get in."

"Wait," she said, "my fares. Did you see them?"

Vincent looked back down the alley. He squinted. Then he looked at her, and stepped around her to reach into the driver's side. When he stood up, her keys dangled from his hand.

She watched as he walked down the alley to pick up her locked bag, getting into the car as she did so, and waited until he was a good ten steps away. At exactly his eleventh step, she slammed the door shut, reached up and pulled down the visor over her head.

She always kept a spare key taped to it. Just the ignition key, you never knew what could happen in a bad situation. She'd heard, too many times, about women getting mugged, and using their keys to fight the guy off, only to find themselves in a car with no way to make it run. If she had to use her keys, she wanted a back-up.

She ripped off the duct tape, slammed it into the ignition, and started the car. Vincent spun around at the sound, and she turned the wheel, making the tires squeal.

He looked like a moving shadow from the corner of her eye as she turned. She saw him step into a particular stance, similar to the one he'd used when he'd shot those kids. The back of his suit coat flew out, and something was in his hand.

His gun.

It was raining. The alley was slick with oil in the gravel stones. Her tires couldn't get the fast traction she wanted, and she had hit the acceleration too fast.

He was running toward her.

She heard a shot fire about two feet from her head. She knew it wasn't a miss - Vincent didn't miss, no hit-man worth his salt would ever miss. He was giving her a warning.

She ignored it.

Before she knew what was happening, he was beside her, lunging in through the broken window. He grabbed the wheel with one hand, his gun aiming at her with the other. She reached out, grabbed his wrist, tried to push him away.

The bullet went through the windshield. In an utter panic, she slammed the break, suddenly unable to see the dark world through a spider-web of splintered glass. Vincent was half-way into the car now, reaching over to push up the gear stick into neutral, so as not to blow the transmission. He pulled back a little, his hands on the edge of the window frame, knocking away the bits of glass.

"Stupid, Callie," he said to her, more calm than he had any sane right to be. "Very stupid."


	3. Do You Like Jazz?

Chapter Three---Do You Like Jazz?

She had an odd memory. It was the last time she and her brother had had a quiet drink together, in his house, on a rare night off. They were going to go over to their father's house, together. Ray was telling her about a woman he was seeing, a teacher, with a certain air about her that he liked. She was very dry, very much in control of her world around her, and while she didn't have the physical appearance of a supermodel, Ray found her to be incredibly sexual, from her mousy brown hair to her perky breasts and her long, slightly skinny, natural legs.

Normally, Ray was very much a gentleman with the ladies, but he worked too much. It was his flaw. Probably the same flaw that existed in all cops. This woman, however, seemed to be fine with that.

"I feel funny talking about this with you," he said as he refilled her glass. It was a Friday, late, on a rare night off that she had, and she spent it here, relaxing with him. When he wasn't being a nag, he was a really great guy that she totally adored.

"Why?" she asked. "I tell you all my secrets."

He chuckled. "What secrets do you have?"

She hesitated. "Well...I met somebody."

"What?" He set down his beer, favoring it over the harder stuff that she liked to sip at, over long periods of time. "That has a definite sound to it."

"Yeah, well, you don't have to be a detective to figure that out." She rolled the amber alcohol around her glass. "I've known him for a little bit. He's a graduate student. We wind up crossing paths on a regular basis."

"Yeah, go on," he prompted.

"Well...he asked me to cover for him on something, I can't even remember what it was now, and then sent me a thank you note a few weeks later, after we hadn't seen each other in a while. He made some offhand comment about how we hadn't run into each other lately. I sent him back a little note mentioning that I noticed the same, that maybe we should have coffee or something."

"And when are you going to have coffee?"

"Next week, when I have a day off again at the same time he's got one."

"Coordinating your schedules already, huh? I guess that's the real world. Modern romance." She sighed. He noticed. "What's wrong, then?"

"Well, he's a nice guy, I like him. I just don't know how I feel about him."

"You don't have to know. Just let whatever happens...happen."

"I know." She sighed again, looked away.

"But..."

"No, it's silly."

"Tell me. I told you all about my sexy new girlfriend." He watched her carefully, his penetrating detective eyes seeing through her evasiveness. "What, is this back to your childish fantasy again?"

"Everybody's gotta have a dream," she said, sipping an extra large mouthful.

"Swept off your feet, huh?" He laughed. "That could happen, too, when you're not looking for it."

"Come on, Ray. You know me. I have to classic situations. Either I'm more interested in him than he is in me, or he's more interested in me than I am in him. And I can't decide which one I hate more. Although being more interested is certainly more fun."

"You mean more psychotic," he joked. "You know how obsessive you can be. That's why you're going to be a great detective someday, just like me."

"And then I'll be better than you and publish a best-selling novel to top it all off." She had clinked her glass against his.

Callie could hear a clinking noise. She looked down, noticed that there was an aluminum can rolling across the parking lot, to land against the curb.

The snapping of the gas pump shutting off drew her attention back to the present. She pulled it out, capped it off, and placed the pump back in its place.

She looked up. Out across the lot, not more than thirty feet from her, stood Vincent. His back was to her, and he was looking around, not with the kind of nervous intensity he'd previously show, but a calm, long glancing, his lips occasionally parting to reveal his teeth, then closing again.

He shuffled so he was partly facing her. He looked across his shoulder, and his expression was just as cold as before.

He'd been angry when he'd stopped her. He reached across and yanked out the key from the ignition, then reached down and unlocked the back door for himself. He climbed in, leaving her bag of fares abandoned in the middle of that alley, and angrily tossed her keys at her, letting them land painfully against her thigh.

"Drive," he ordered.

He made her stop at this gas station, threw a twenty at her and told her to fill up the tank. Then he'd walked away, and had been standing there ever since. This was the first acknowledgement he'd made of her presence since.

"You do anything like that again, and you might get very badly hurt," he said. His voice was loud enough for her to hear it, but not so loud that it attracted attention. Besides, it was past ten o'clock at night, there weren't too many people around. She wished she had a watch so she could see the exact time. She'd been too afraid that Vincent was going to make her pull over and shoot her in the back of the head before to worry about it then.

"Do you understand?" he snapped, a bit harsher.

She nodded, thoroughly chastened.

"Yeah?" He nodded himself, his expression stiffening. Either he was trying to cool off, or he was attempting to lighten himself up. "Well...new news, then." He clapped his hands, and it made her jump a little, as she wasn't expecting it. "You like Jazz?"

"Jazz?" she echoed.

"Jazz, do you like Jazz?" He was stepping closer to her. She turned a little, confused. The closer he got, the more relaxed he became.

"It's...okay. I listen to the jazz stations every now and again."

He looked away. "Well, there's this place I heard about. All the greats played there, Charlie Mengis, Chad Baker..." He gave her a little smile, and she could have sworn it was mildly apologetic. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

She shook herself, feeling like she'd slipped into a stupor and was imaging all of this. "I'm sorry?"

"A drink, you know?" He got closer to her. "Come on, Callie, there really isn't any reason for there to be hard feelings between us. We had a misunderstanding before, that's all."

She glanced at the windshield of her car. _Some misunderstanding_. He seemed to catch her meaning.

"Come on, nothing's done that can't be undone." His smile widened. "Maybe they'll have dancing. You like to dance?"

She grunted, in the back of her throat. "Yeah, I guess," she said softly. He handed her they keys to the cab again.

"Come on, let's go."

8888888888

So what he'd really meant, she gathered later, was that she hadn't yet seen anything that could make her a liability. Sure, she saw him shoot two punks who threatened their lives. Sure, they'd done a bad thing by not calling the cops and removing bodies from a crime scene, but that was small potatoes for him, she was sure.

It was hard to believe, but as she drove to the jazz club, she was sure of it. She was driving a real live hit man.

She had always known that such things existed, although they seemed more myth than reality. She saw a TV movie once that starred Tim Matheson, who played a hit man who, instead of shooting the woman he was contracted to kill by her husband, had instead made a deal with her to put her husband in jail and let her go free. Turned out that he had a serious soft spot for her, could have potentially been in love with her, if the movie had been willing to go that far out. Instead, it realistically - in as much as a television movie could - portrayed the twists and turns of trying to set everything up to protect everyone and actually get the husband arrested. They had succeeded, but all was not happily ever after. The hit man wound up serving some time in jail, the husband was paroled early, and the woman had to change her and her children's identities so she could have some peace. Supposedly it was based on a real life story. Probably explained the "real" aspects of it.

Tim Matheson's hit man hadn't been anything like Vincent. Matheson had been a scruffy looking teddy bear, smart but small-time, and ultimately, lonely and pathetic. Vincent was sleek, well oiled, a machine. And he was...strangely charming.

In an anti-social kind of way.

It took a good while to get to Leimert Park, at least forty-five minutes. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, he attempted to make conversation with her, but she was a bit too shaken up to really respond.

"What else do you listen to, besides jazz?" he asked her.

"My favorite station is..." she trailed off, knowing he wouldn't know it. "They play a wide variety. Popular music."

"Huh. Never cared much for it myself, but I guess it's called popular music for a reason. Any particular favorites?"

"Barenaked Ladies," she answered, turning a corner. "Vanessa Carlton, Smashmouth, Black Eyed Peas, you name it. A little of everything."

"Any else?"

"Some new wave stuff. Sarah Brightman, Enya." She struggled to concentrate on driving. Only now that she realized what she was dealing with did all the other things come snapping into place.

She'd been much more attracted to him initially than she'd thought. The disappointment that he was what he was, it was much more potent than she'd imagined. It was like a deep hole had been opened inside her, the kind of raw sorrow that only comes in dreams, emotion in its pure form.

She shook herself. She was getting dizzy, sentimental, and worst of all, unwound. Her brain was just going through reflexes in its attempts to defend itself against the reality of the situation. She was, bottom line, a hostage. She could not walk away at any time. As nice as he was being about it, she was his prisoner and he would not let her go.

The next question became, would he ever? The feelings of helplessness, of being trapped, squirmed into her stomach and made her feel like there was a vortex inside her, sucking away all the hope, all the light, every drop of happiness she'd ever known. She attempted to step outside of herself, examine her feelings, but the doors were locked and she was trapped inside.

What if this was her last night on Earth? What if he was going to kill her in the end? She shook her head, feeling her eyelids starting to flutter. She couldn't panic, she couldn't get upset. He was taking her to a club. He was going to buy her a drink. He talked about dancing. She could play pretend. Pretend it was a date with a handsome guy.

A handsome guy who killed people for a living.

No, she didn't know that yet. Although her brain kept replaying, again and again, his motions in the alley, the lightning reflexes, the cold, detached expression he had when he walked away from that kid, shooting him in the skull as he went.

She had done enough profiles. She had gone to enough classes. She knew what the hell she had in her cab. But she dared not say a thing. Maybe if he thought he'd convinced her that he was harmless - or at least not a legal threat - he would let her go when it was all over.

She drew a shuddering breath. He was rambling about jazz, about the different artists, and he seemed to have realized somewhere that she wasn't listening to him anymore.

"Hello?" he called, gently, leaning forward. She jumped a little, shaking herself again. "You okay?"

She nodded.

He cocked his head. "You're not very convincing. It's stress, though, just stress. Are you breathing?"

"Yes," she said, a bit more tersely than she thought herself capable of at that moment.

"Look, if it makes you feel any better," he said, knowing where her mind was without her saying a word, "those two were criminals. Engaged in continuing criminal activity. We did the world a favor, you know. Any cop, including your brother, would have done the same in that situation."

Surprisingly, the words had their desired affect. Ray would have done exactly that. Her fingers itched. She wanted so badly to talk to him. She had never wanted him more in her life.

"When this is over," Vincent went on, and she heard the faint tapping of his pointer on the screen, "you can call him, tell him everything. Make yourself happy. But tonight your job is to be my driver, and until that job is done, you stay with me and do what I say." There was a hint, just a hint, of force behind his words. Anybody else would have used a lot more, but Vincent didn't need to.

"Yeah," she replied, swallowing to moisten her drying throat. "Yeah."

"You still breathing?"

"That's the plan," she said, focusing on the road.

"In the meantime, there's no reason in the world that this can't be a pleasant evening." She glanced up at him, and he was faintly smiling at her again. She felt a chill when she realized that her attraction to him might be mutual. The thought was terrifying. Utterly so.

"Yeah," she said, unable to find another word. Then, "I guess."

"You'll like this place, it's a piece of city history." He trailed off, and let out a small sigh when he noticed that her expression hadn't changed, her shoulders hadn't unclenched. He was very good at body language, and she was coiled to jump, secretly wishing that the driver's seat was actually an ejection seat in disguise. "You know, I didn't mean for that to happen. It was never a part of the plan."

She didn't say anything.

"But you know, shit happens," he said. "And we have to just roll with it, go with the flow." His eyes were brighter, staring her down in the rearview. "Right?"

"Right."

"I mean, nothing ever goes exactly the way you planned it. I'm sure your brother could tell you stories. I'm sure you have stories of your own, you've lived here long enough. You've studied Darwin, right? E-Ching?"

She blinked. "Are you trying to talk me down?" she asked, her voice faint.

"I'm sorry?"

She stared up at him, stopped at a red light. It was amazing. She'd expected a lot of things from meeting a criminal personality, but this guy actually seemed to think he was right, and wanted her to think so, too.

_Sociopath_, her criminology-mind told her. That's what sociopaths were like. They weren't psychotic, they simply saw the world a particular way, and didn't understand why others didn't see it the same.

Sociopathic and anit-social. His earlier comments about society had to be a clue. If she really wanted to live through this night, she was going to have to play along.

Thoughts of Patty Hurst and Stockholm syndrome danced in her head, but she managed to really calm herself down, think soothing thoughts, let herself focus on the more pleasant aspects of the situation. When they reached the club and she parked, he paid the fee, and they got out together.

"Wait," he said as she closed the driver's side door. He looked down at her pantleg. "That punk ruined your jeans."

She'd nearly forgotten. She was so focused on keeping her body calm, however, that her mouth had quite lost its ability to form words.

He reached out, gently pulled away the leather jacket she was wearing. "You've got a sweater on underneath," he said. "Take it off."

She took off the leather coat. He held out his hand for it. She removed the sweater.

"Tie it around your waist," he said.

She obeyed, letting the longer part cover the wide smear of blood on her upper thigh. When she looked up, she caught him looking at her, and realized that she was wearing a thin, satiny tank top underneath everything, fitted and cut around her waist and breasts, but high enough not to show any bared cleavage. He seemed to approve.

"Good, put this back on."

She took it back, slipped it back on. It looked nice without the bulk of the sweater underneath.

"Okay, that will work. But one more thing." He reached up and removed her had, tossing it inside the cab through the broken window. Then he crooked his fingers for her to step closer to him, which she did, hesitantly. He gently turned her around, and she felt his fingers at the end of her long braid.

"Hey," she managed.

"Sorry," he said, "but the night's taken its toll on your hairdo." He took off the band and pulled the locks apart gently, until her hair in all its streaked glory lay across her shoulders, spreading across her back. She felt his fingertips thread through it, coming close to the nape of her neck. His touch was gentle, caressing. She found herself closing her eyes as it came around again, combing through the locks, smoothing them out. Unconsciously she let out a small sigh of pleasure. She hadn't had her hair brushed for her since her mother was alive.

Then he turned her around, and he was grinning. "Perfect," he said. He took her hand and looped it through his arm. "Let's go."

8888888888

The club was dim, but comfortable. There was a round area where tables and chairs and even a few booths were spread out for people to sit and listen to the band, which played on the stage with a wild abandon she hadn't seen in most rock stars. Jazz wasn't like other music.

Vincent seemed utterly delighted by the sight, although how she was able to detect any of his moods was beyond her. But his face definitely changed. It softened, and he smiled, and the tension went out of his shoulders.

"This is my kind of place," he said. Her hand had been resting on his arm the whole way up, and he took it now in his hand, palm to palm, fingers gently enclosing hers.

Something in his touch was different. Before it had been informal and rough, but now she was reminded of the gentleness of his fingers in her hair, and her scalp tingled. He pulled her close to his side, even as he motioned to a host to seat them at a table.

Then she realized that it was a mistake. She was letting herself go soft. She was letting herself sympathize with him, allowing her natural, physical attraction to him blind her to everything else. She was letting him totally charm her.

She had to get away.

She wiggled her fingers in his grip, noticed that his hold tightened ever slightly. "Vincent," she said, low enough for only him to hear.

"What?" he asked, turning to her, raising his eyebrows, all innocence.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she said. It was lame, but she squeezed her thighs together for emphasis. She looked embarrassed, and genuinely was, as it was unlikely she would be able to make a movie-like escape through a bathroom window.

There wasn't anything getting past him. He calmly walked her toward the sign that said, in red neon, "RESTROOMS," and led her down the hallway. It was a single seater, no windows, which he allowed her to enter without protest. She went in, attempted to go in case she really did need to, and the tension of the evening was just making her ignore it, and saw that her hair didn't look half bad, even though it had spent a good part of the day smashed under that hat.

When she came out, Vincent was waiting for her at the end of the hallway, and she caught a small smile on his face, maybe of appreciation, maybe of triumph, she couldn't tell. He led her to their table, in the middle of the floor, wide open, hardly any people there, but it was a weeknight and people did have jobs.

She wasn't too familiar with all the different artists, but there were pictures and names on the walls. Vincent let his hand rest lightly on hers as the music changed from a more quick pace to a slower one, lazier. He glanced around, as if he meant his earlier offer about dancing. When the waitress came to take their order, he kept his very simple - seltzer water with a lime. She, however, felt the terrible craving for a simple shot of bourbon on the rocks. She made herself drink it slow, not wanting to buzz herself, but knowing that that was the real reason she'd wanted it. Vincent asked her if she wanted another, and she declined.

They didn't talk much during the evening. Vincent was totally absorbed in the band. There was a childlike delight on his face, bright and glowing.

When she finished her bourbon, which didn't take as long as she'd hoped, she found herself wanting to talk. Just watching him, getting comfortable with him, it went against her instincts. She was having a silent argument with herself and was desperate to do anything to shut herself up.

"I've been trying to learn to listen to jazz," she muttered.

"It's off melody, behind the notes. Improvised. Just like tonight." He flashed his eyes at her, a smile lingering his face but not reaching his lips. He leaned forward on his arms, eyes trailing back to the band as he got a little closer to her. "Everybody always plays it so safe. Same job, same house, same people, everything the same, same, same. Ten years from now...hell, you don't know where you'll be ten _minutes_ from now..._do_ you?"

He had turned his head completely to her now, pinning her in place. She grunted, looked away, annoyed. The cute-boy act didn't seem to work as well with a bit of alcohol in her.

Vincent leaned back, his hand going out. It took her a second to realize he was stopping the waitress.

"Who is that, on the trumpet?" he asked, his voice still soft in the noisy room, carrying perfectly.

"That's Daniel, baby, he's the owner," the woman replied, the tone all hip, mingled with modern-day L.A.

Vincent reached down, pulled out some money from his pocket. "Well, he's fantastic. Can you ask him to join us? I gotta buy him a drink." He put the money on the small tray she supported against her hip.

"Sure thing, baby," the woman said.

"And bring us another bourbon on the rocks," he added before she walked away. Callie tossed him a look. He was grinning at her.


	4. I Am A Cool Guy

Chapter Four---I Am A Cool Guy

So she was two bourbons down now. It was okay. Not that it mattered. She was going to die. Maybe if she drove drunk, Vincent wouldn't be able to use her anymore. Maybe they would get pulled over and she'd be arrested for drunk driving. It was a possibility.

Then, the horrific thought of Vincent shooting a couple of innocent cops to keep himself from getting dragged into the mess was unbearable.

She glanced over at him. It had been a while. She had a faint buzz going from the alcohol, nothing major, but smooth and mellow. He looked back at her as the set wound down.

"So," he said, leaning forward, close to her, as if they were having a private conversation. "Did you last boyfriend take you to places like this?"

Mute, she shook her head.

He shrugged. "Maybe if he had, you wouldn't have broken up with him?" His look was nearly flirtatious, held back only by the fact that his eyes were still roving the room, taking in everyone. Watching, always watching. "What was he like, your ex?"

"I never said I had an ex," she replied, clinking the last bits of mostly-melted ice in her glass.

"Well, if you had previous boyfriends that you don't have anymore, technically, they're exes."

She looked at him, leaning her chin on her hand. "What about you? Don't you have someone?"

"Didn't we already cover that?" He sipped his water, noticing how the waitress went over to Daniel, telling him that a particular table wanted to buy him a drink.

"Not really. Not to my satisfaction. If you want to know about my love life, it's only fair I know yours."

He gave her a brief smile. "Well, probably not the best conversation to be having right now, anyway."

She laughed a little, glanced out toward the floor to where the musicians were cleaning up. A thought struck her and slid out of her mouth before she could stop it. "I'm going to be alone forever."

"Why?" he seemed perplexed by her statement.

She sighed, shook her head. "Because I'm a complete and total fucking idiot." She sighed again, letting the breath slip out of her lungs. If only she didn't have to put it back.

"Well, maybe occasionally, but not as a general rule, I'm sure," he said, sounding mildly consoling.

"You don't know," she muttered.

"Try me. Since you seem to want to talk about it so badly."

She looked at him. "There's this guy now, nice guy, likes me a lot. We have coffee, dinner on occasion. He hasn't even held my hand yet because I'm not ready for that."

"So...what's wrong, no spark?"

"Nope, not a one. And I know he's interested in me. I got so uncomfortable that after only our third or fourth conversation, I called the guy and nailed the poor bastard with the 'I want to be your friend first' speech. I was lucky he ever talked to me again."

"Ouch. But is he still talking to you?"

"Yes. But still no spark."

She realized he was leaning closer to her. His hand hovered next to hers, ready to take it. "Don't worry about it," he said. "You did the right thing. Honesty is always the best. You had to give it to him straight, you did. Relationships are always better if people make their intentions known up front. No stupid games. Anyway, if he's still talking to you, you haven't wrecked it."

She nodded, feeling mildly comforted by the thought. "Someone told me once that if it's meant to be, you can't screw it up."

Vincent let out a low, sarcastic laugh. "I don't know if I'd go that far. I mean, millions of people in this city alone, billions on the planet. How can anyone believe that there's only one person out there for them? That there's some kind of predestination that will bring those two people together? That's a little far-fetched."

"Well, that doesn't surprise me, coming from you," she said, sipping the remains of the water in her glass. She looked at him, caught how his cheek muscles twitch.

"Exactly why?" he asked, still casual, curious.

"Well, that would imply faith in something bigger than yourself," she replied. "You don't have beliefs like that and then become a hit man."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Miss Criminology Major is attempting to psychoanalyze me," he said dryly. "What makes you think I'm a hit-man, anyway?"

"What are you, a nihilist?" she asked. "God is dead, all that noise?"

"You've had a bit too much to drink."

"Only enough to make me say stupid things. Don't worry, I can still drive, and I'm not drunk enough to try and run away from you again."

His hand finally closed over hers. "Good. Because I would hate to have to hurt you, but I would if you made me."

She seemed puzzled by this statement. "Have you ever had to shoot someone that you liked?" she asked.

"Liked? You mean, how, a woman I was sleeping with?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, that, or someone you were just friends with. Do you have any friends?"

He shook his head.

She shrugged. "Figured that, too. So you only sleep with women, you don't get to know them first? You don't have relationships?" 

"It's hard to have a relationship when you have to travel as much as I do."

"Or live like you do. Do you even have a home?"

His hand squeezed hers a bit. She looked up. Daniel had approached, and now the conversation was over.

For the moment.

Daniel stuck out his hand, shook Vincent's, then kissed Callie's. He told them he would be right back, he just had a little bit of business to take care of. The band was playing something quiet and low, and the club was nearly empty.

Vincent took her hand fully in his, gave it a mild tug. "Well, I promised you a dance," he said. "How about it?"

It was very cool, the way he said it, very casual, confident. She wondered where he got it from. Nearly every guy she'd ever known had always fumbled on that line, even when they were dating her and dancing was expected. She looked at him, unsure. Before they'd been on the verge of fighting. Now, the adrenaline pushed the alcohol through her system, giving her a moment of clarity.

He stood up, taking her with him. She let him lead her to a small section of the floor, and before she knew it, he had one arm around her back, and felt the warmth of his chest inches away from hers. Her hand rested on the shoulder of his suit coat, feeling the polished cotton against her fingertips.

"You didn't answer me before," she said. "Do you have a home?"

"I have a place to lay my head," he said. "Homes are for people with families."

She bit back something sarcastic, like, _poor little hit man_. Instead, she just let the silence rest, not sure of whatever she wanted to say next. Sometimes, in moments of extreme discomfort, silence was a haven instead of an addition to a difficult situation. She'd always found this to be true on dates - if a guy said something she didn't like, she would let the silence speak for her, finding it easier. As dense as men were, they usually got the message and hastily changed the subject.

Suddenly she realized that Vincent was looking right at her, gazing down into her face. He was only a few inches taller than her, although he was well built, she could sense his muscle frame against her, knew he could most likely snap her in half if he wanted to.

"So, this guy you're seeing...why are you seeing him?"

She was a bit startled by the conversation. "Why not? He's a perfectly nice guy."

"That you don't like. Why not?"

She shifted, uncomfortable. "He makes...insinuations. I don't know if he means to, but they made me uncomfortable."

"Insinuations...you mean sexual?"

She nodded.

"And you're offended by them." A statement, not a question. He seemed to be attempting to understand her, even if he didn't quite grasp it - she could tell by the squint of his eyebrows.

She said, "I'm of the belief that when two people are getting to know each other, the man should be a gentleman. On his best behavior."

"Only depends on what the relationship is for," Vincent pointed out.

She stiffened. "No, it depends on the person you are," she corrected him.

"Really?"

"Yes. You see, in spite of the popular view, that sex is good for recreation, or a natural need, a basic instinct, I believe that it should stay within the confines of marriage."

"You do." Very dead-pan now, nearly amused.

"Yes." She was getting more annoyed by the second.

"Well, maybe that's the problem. Maybe this guy is trying to sleep with you and you just think you should be friends. Hence why he doesn't seem to get the message."

She shrugged. "Doesn't matter." She let out the part that she didn't really believe she was going to live through the night at any rate.

"It does," he insisted, and then she felt herself being pressed up against him. "You see, you're keeping this guy at arm's length because he isn't what you want. If he was, you wouldn't care. If you had a spark, it wouldn't matter." She felt his fingers sliding along her lower back, sending chills up her spine. "Now, someone you're attracted to could do just about anything, and you'd come back for more without a single complaint." He leaned very close to her ear, ticking the delicate hairs there. "Right?"

She turned away, nearly speechless. She felt slightly dizzy, wondering if he was going to do something really stupid, like kiss her.

And hating herself for secretly hoping he would.

Then he pulled away, looked down at her, and smiled, wickedly. "Isn't it nice, though, when two people feel the same way?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "I've never been there."

His smile widened, and he gently let her go. They went back to their seat, as Daniel had returned and the waitress had brought their drinks.

8888888888

"That was the way Miles was, though," Daniel was saying, his drink half-watered down in front of him, totally engrossed in conversation with Vincent. "When he was in his musical headspace? Fierce."

Callie listened, her eyes going back and forth like at a tennis match. Vincent had metamorphosised (sp). He'd gone from being cunning and wicked to being friendly and polite and downright interesting. His admiration for Daniel was clear. She didn't think she would ever see something like this in a man like him, but the second they started talking about Miles Davis, it was like a spell had been cast.

Until then, Vincent had been idly reaching for her hand ever now and again, to give the impression that they were together. Careful not to piss him off, she'd played along, although coolly, not wanting to seem too submissive. Now, he was completely into whatever Daniel was saying, leaning back in his seat, hands on his thighs....

And funny thing. He'd started looking around the room again.

At first, she'd had a moment of unwelcome jealousy when she simply thought he was checking out the waitress, like he had before. But now, she was starting to wonder...

"But did you get to talk to him?" Vincent asked. Daniel had been telling them all about a night in 1964 when Miles Davis had come into this club while Daniel was a mere busboy, just wanting to be around the music of the jazz scene. She could picture him, that young. She could imagine what it felt like, just wanting to be around something you admired so much. There had been times when she'd snuck away for weekends to various writer's conventions just to be around the brilliant minds she would meet there, chance at a meeting with a favorite of hers.

"Better. I got to play for twenty minutes," Daniel said, as if dropping the punchline of a brilliant joke.

"Man," Vincent breathed, playing it cool but still amazed, "had to be..."

"Oh, it was," Daniel replied, as if they could finish each other's thoughts.

"How did you do?" she heard herself asking.

He laughed, smiled at her, showing her the respect that a mildly interested girlfriend deserved. "Well, you're really not much when you're playing next to Miles Davis, but he carried me," he replied, watching his mouth, being respectful to her because she was a woman. She found she really liked that. If she'd been a guy he would have used a lot more swear words, but he was a real gentleman. She wished there were more like him the world.

"What did he say?" Vincent asked, still being cool but interested.

"He said one word. Cool." The word 'cool' was spoken in a husky whisper, and she could imagine it perfectly.

"Cool?" Vincent said, much sharper, quicker, without the special effects.

"Cool," Daniel affirmed. "It meant good, but not ready. It meant, look me up when you are."

"Did you?"

"No, I got drafted, and then there were...other things..." he shot Callie an uncomfortable look. "By the time I came back to it, the season had passed."

Vincent sighed, as if feeling a deep sense of empathy. "The crowds aren't here, now," he said.

"Well, jazz ain't the draw that it used to be. You know, I was born in 1945, but that night was the night of my conception."

Vincent smiled, shook his head. "Wow. That's a great story."

"Yeah," Callie agreed, "really." She glanced at Vincent, and felt a real familiar feeling between her legs. "I'll be right back," she said, standing up slowly.

Vincent's eyes shot to her.

"Bathroom," she said softly, pointing. He nodded, and watched her all the way there. She could feel his eyes drilling holes into her back. But it was for real this time, and she actually used the toilet, took a moment to fix her hair, and headed out again.

Only to find Vincent coming toward her.

8888888888

Vincent watched Callie walk away. It was perfect, really. And even if she tried to leave, she wouldn't get far, as he had her keys in his pocket. He turned back to Daniel, who was smiling, pleased at the enthusiastic response he'd gotten for his story, raising his glass to take a drink.

Vincent said, "I'll have to tell the guys in Cartajena and Kublikhan that story."

Then Daniel's smile vanished. The world changed to black and white. Vincent sat his target, watched him lower his glass. "You know the guys from Cartajena and Kublikhan?"

"Afraid so."

The smile was long gone, having dropped from dead-pan into an expression of deep fear and loathing. Daniel had gone from looking at Vincent with the admiration of a fellow enthusiast, to looking at him as if he'd murdered his father.

Vincent saw a tingle of color. He felt the merest pang of guilt. It was unusual for him, and he studied it, wondering where in the hell it had come from, how it could possibly exist.

He'd been killing for years. Only six for private hire, but before that, he was a certified, card-carrying, government-funded assassin. It was part of the reason he'd gone prematurely gray. He'd never regretted a single kill.

"And just when I thought you were a cool guy."

"I am a cool guy," Vincent said, not skipping a beat, "with a job I was contracted to do."

Daniel continued to glare at him, his cheeks having dropped so that they hung like the empty pockets in a squirrel's face.

He sighed, considering. "Okay, listen," he said, doing a quick calculation in his head and knowing he only had a few more minutes to do this without Callie seeing. She'd watched him gun down the guys in the street, but that was defendable, even forgiveable. This, however, would not be, and there'd be no turning back. He'd have to kill her when the night was over.

Strangely, he did not want to do that.

"Yeah?" Daniel breathed.

"I'm going to ask you a question."

"What kind of question?"

"A jazz question," Vincent said, his tone condescending. "If you get it right, we roll." We. As if Callie were involved in this.

"I guarantee you," Daniel said, grasping at the thin line, desperate, "that if I walk out of here tonight, I will go so far away, it'll be just like I was dead. And you tell these people and their rep here, Felix? Tell them I'm sorry. Tell them, I was compelled to give testimony. It was either play ball or go back inside, and I'm not going back inside."

Vincent barely nodded. He moistened his lips, and said, "Where did Miles learn music?"

"I know everything there is to know about Miles Davis," Daniel said.

"Then let's have it."

"His father was a dentist, invested in agriculture, made a lot of money, sent Miles to Julliard, school of music, New York, 1955."

Vincent coolly raised his hand, which now held his gun, and planted three bullets right into Daniel's head. Before the man could fall, Vincent stood up, knocking his chair out from behind him, reaching out with one hand to catch the man's face as he fell.

Gently, so gently, he set him down, as if the man were his son and he were putting him to sleep. Then, just as tenderly, he reached down, pulled up his hand, his left one, and set it beside him on the table.

"Tripped out of Julliard after listening to Charlie Parker, who mentored him for the next three years," Vincent murmured, as if to confirm the truth of the answer to some silent listener.

He closed his eyes. So this was what regret felt like. He didn't like it, it was bitter in his mouth. He closed his eyes, let out his breath, tried to swallow the taste away, but it wouldn't.

Then he heard the bathroom door open. He let go and shoved the gun back into its holster, heading right for her as she stepped out into the hallway.

He managed to block her view, but scared the piss out of her in the process, he could tell from the look on her face. She jumped, pulled back, seemed offended.

"I really was using the bathroom," she said.

"I know," he said. "We have to go."

"But I thought you were talking to Daniel," she said, poking her head around his shoulder. "What happened?"

Vincent tried to pull her back into his shadow, but she had nearly pushed herself into him, and had already gotten a glimpse down the hallway and out into the room.

"What's Daniel got his head down for?" she asked. "Is he sick?"

He almost laughed. The first time he'd ever seen a dead body, he'd asked the same question.

Then she pulled back, turned and looked up at him. The horror slowly registered there.

"We have to go," he said again. He grabbed her wrist and led her through the club, out the back door, and out into the street.

A/N: Quick shout-outs to SYNB and Sargonne, who have both begun their own Collateral fics. Sargonne's is called "Vestige," and SYNB's is called "Music For Serial Killers." Both of them quite excellent and totally unique. I recommend them both highly. I seriously think we HAVE to make put up at Collateral section, we'd totally fill it up! I'm with you, Sargonne! Plus, they really need to open up a Miracle fanfiction section, there are at least a dozen of those fics on the Misc. Movies page! LOL


	5. Since When Is Any Of This Negotiable?

Disclaimer: Don't own Collateral. Although with all the fics I wrote for this movie, you'd think I did. But no, alas, Tom Cruise isn't currently owned by anyone. And did you hear that Jamie Foxx will be working with Michael Mann again, this time co-starring with Tom's arch nemesis, Colin Farrell, to be in a movie-version of a modern day "Miami Vice"? But I'm digressing...

Welcome back! Oh, wait, I'M the one who's been away. Oh well. But anyhoo, I'm back and running with this fic. I don't know how often updates will be coming because I have a problem. When I got the Collateral DVD, I wasdetermined to use it to finish this fic. Well, it took me a while to get around to the Collateral DVD because my obsession switched people for a while, and when I came back around and I watched the movie with the commentary, I just started to appreciate how utterly brillaint the movie was and I felt terribly inferior. I mean, this story feels inferior to the brilliance of the movie. So I'm struggling right now to keep true to the spirit of the movie and yet make the plot unique. Which isn't easy. I had to go back and re-read Solace/Soulless to regain my "Vincent" perspective, but then I realized that Vincent only has one true love, Victoria, and that this story isn't really a romance...well, not a strict romance, anyway. It's more an angst/psychological thing than anything else.

All right, I'm so done talking. You've been waiting quite a few months for this update, if you still are keeping track of this fic, so onto the good parts...

**_Chapter Five Since When Is Any Of This Negotiable?_**

(For those who don't remember, we just left the Jazz club scene where poor Daniel gets popped in the head three times. Vincent has just dragged Callie out of the club, and Callie is NOT a happy camper.)

"What happened? What did you do?"Callie cried, even as her breath turned into steam in the open, chill air of the night, even as Vincent continued on mercilessly, towards the cab.

He did not even look back.

She dug in her heels and threw back her weight. She would have been yanked off her feet if she hadn't also decided to bend her knees and brace herself against the ground, like a child throwing a temper tantrum. He staggered, turned, took her other arm, pulled her up, and she lost her balance, falling chest-first into his frame. His arms caught her, pulling her tight, rigid against his body, not giving her an inch of space.

"Let…me…go!" she rasped as her arms flailed uselessly where his pinned them down against her sides. She looked to her left quickly, saw there were pedestrians approaching, that the streets were not so deserted, at least not on this side of town. Vincent saw them, too, let her go, caught her by the forearms and brought her heavily forward again, so that their faces were nearly level.

He bent down. His mouth covered hers, absolutely.

As a kiss, it was different. At first she knew damn well it was an act, his attempt at trying to make it look like this was some kind of lover's quarrel. The fact that she wasn't already screaming for help, that their body language clearly indicated that they knew each other, was enough to keep even the nosiest person from intervening. The kiss was the clincher. The climax of the scene.

And then, a few seconds into it, her amazement wore off and she realized exactly what was going on. By the time her brain hazily processed it, he really was kissing her.

Really. _Kissing_ her.

The fact that Vincent was attractive hadn't escaped her. Sure, he was prematurely gray, and had shot at her, but that didn't stop his eyes from being so green, didn't stop his voice from being raspy in all the right ways, and didn't stop his very masculine frame from feeling so good against her body.

Then there was pure chemistry at work. She had never understood the power of a kiss. She had always heard the myth that you never knew if you were right for a certain guy until you kissed him – the Shoop song, "It's In His Kiss," seemed so silly, but it was absolutely true.

The spark went through them both, back and forth a couple of times. It seemed that his lips were never going to let go.

She stopped fighting, falling limp against him, only her willpower keeping her on her feet. She let her arms hang, then slowly drew them back to her body as he relaxed his grip, and then, when the kiss broke, she just stared at him, too shaken to speak.

To her amazement, the same look was in his face. Or at least, she though it was. He seemed to blink, and it was gone.

"I am _not_ playing," he said.

She opened her mouth to speak, realized she didn't know what to say. "Not playing?" she managed. "You've been playing _me_ all _night_."

His lips twisted, and the hints of his wicked smile seemed to glimmer down at her. He relaxed his arms further, and she was able to twist out of his grip. She looked at him, barely five inches in front of him, and let out a long, deep breath.

"All right. I'm finished with this," she said, quietly, as if to herself. "You're getting yourself another damn cab driver. Take your fucking money back." She reached into her back pocket, pulled out the three hundreds. "I quit."

"Doesn't work like that," Vincent said plainly.

"Yes it does. You don't know me and I don't know you. Have a good night." She took a step back.

He matched it with a step forward. "You don't get to walk away now, Callie."

"Watch me." She spun. The next thing she knew, Vincent had grabbed her and thrown her up against the wall, his hand at her throat. She felt the curve of his thumb and forefinger across her windpipe, ready to close it in a heartbeat.

"You're not listening to me," he said. "You're not going anywhere except where I tell you."

"Fuck you," she managed.

He almost smiled again. "Maybe another night. But never when I'm working."

She struggled against his hand, too angry to be afraid for the moment, although the fear was creeping up on her, slowly, a chill in her limbs. "Let go of me!" she cried, although with his new pressure, it came out more like a squeak.

"Relax," he said casually, "and I'll consider it."

She glared at him, then, slowly, forced herself to stop moving. Then, gently, he extracted his hand from her neck, and grabbed her shoulder, and what he was about to do next, she would never find out, as her cellular phone went off in her pocket.

Vincent looked down. She imagined that few people in the world ever saw him truly surprised. He seemed to have forgotten about her cel-phone, and could imagine that for a guy in his line of work, that was a big, fat mistake. He looked up at her, annoyed.

"Hey, don't blame me, you're the one who's supposed to know everything," she said, turning away from him, pressing her cheek into the roughness of the brick wall behind her. Then she felt a tremor of embarrassment as his hand delved into her pocket and took the phone out.

"Who's Ray?" he asked.

"My brother."

The phone stopped ringing. "You talk to him a lot," he commented.

"Yeah. Well, he is a cop," she reminded him, then regretted it with the look Vincent gave her.

"So what happens if you don't answer? He just leaves a message?"

"No, he calls back until I do answer," she said with a sigh, knowing she had to be truthful, that if she lied, it would just make Vincent angrier. God knew where she stood at the moment, but she was an idiot to think that he wouldn't kill her, even now.

As if on cue, the phone started to ring again.

"What is it _with_ this guy?" Vincent snapped. He considered the phone, considered her. "Answer it."

She seemed amazed at this suggestion. "And say what?"

"He's your brother. Lie to him."

"I can't. He'll see right through me."

"Then you'd better make it good, if you don't want him to get hurt."

Her stomach lurched. She hadn't thought of it quite that way yet. The fact that she was in danger hadn't escaped her, but that her brother might get hurt purely by extension was horrifying. She took up the phone in one hand, and shakily pressed the green phone button.

"Hey, Ray," she said, hoping the fear in her voice wasn't too obvious, even as she tried to bury it under a mask of exhaustion.

"Callie," came Ray's voice. "What's going on? You really busy?"

"Yeah, it's been a crazy night," she said, knowing that wasn't a lie, watching Vincent's face the whole time, searching for cues. "What is it?"

"Well, I know we already had this discussion "

"That's never stopped you before."

"I really want you to go over and visit dad," Ray said.

"Not this again," she sighed, her weariness genuine.

"Callie, he's having a rough night. His insomnia is really bad; he needs some company. I would go over in a heartbeat, but I stumbled into a crime scene about an hour ago and now I'm getting dragged all over town."

"Crime scene?" Callie pressed, her spine starting to tingle. "What's going on?"

"Same old bullshit in L.A., really," Ray said, "but one of my leaks got shot, and supposedly one of his higher-ups is dead, too."

She wanted to ask where he was. She wanted to ask who was dead. She didn't dare, not with Vincent looking at her.

"I'm bogged down, I'll be lucky to get off shift three hours late. Come on, Cal, drop off your fare and head on over, five minutes. I'll really owe you."

She sighed deeply. She was ready to tell him that she absolutely couldn't that night, but knew it was just going to lead to an argument.

"Tell him you'll go," Vincent whispered, who had been listening to the conversation the whole time. It was remarkable how loud the tiny speakers of a cellular phone actually were.

She glared at him. "I'll see. But I can't promise."

"That's enough," Ray said, "Love you. Thanks."

"Love you too." She hung up the phone. "I don't lie to my brother very well," she said. "He's going to be really pissed at me when he finds out I didn't go, although I really doubt that you give a shit."

"You're going to go," Vincent said. "We both are." She stared at him, not reacting at first. Vincent mistook it for confusion. "We have to go," Vincent attempted the rational track. "If you don't go, Ray finds out, he comes looking for you. Not good. For either of you. We go, there's no problem."

Speaking softly and forcefully, she said, "I'm _not_ taking you to see my _father_."

"Since when is _any_ of this negotiable?" Vincent asked in a dangerous tone, stepping closer to her.

She calmed, backed off. "Who the hell am I supposed to tell him that you are?" she said. "I never bring fares home."

"I'll think of something on the way. Let's go." He handed her the keys to the cab, and they got in and left.

8888888888

It was midnight. Even though the clock flashed 12:01 a.m. on her dashboard, it was pure midnight. She'd seen an episode of some show like _Twilight Zone_ a long time ago, where an old man, who was really a vampire, explained that actual midnight was not the literal 12:00 a.m., but a few minutes before or after, when the true hour struck, and evil came out to wreak havoc on the night.

Evil had already been out to play for a while, now, she thought ruefully. Then, she remembered, with a pang, how much that episode had upset her. In the story, at the midnight hour on Halloween, the old man/vampire had been torn to bits by the neighbors, all of them becoming mindless zombies under some weird kind of spell. In the morning, no one remembered what they had done, but the boy the old man befriended discovered the truth. At the very end, the boy was with his father, and the wind started to blow, and for no reason, the father started coughing, which was the exact reaction everyone had to the old man/vampire, and the boy had a look upon his face as if he understood that whatever the old man was had been passed along to him, and that one day, he would suffer the same fate.

She blamed her father, really. He was far too into creepy stuff like that. _Outer Limits_, _Unsolved Mysteries_, you name it, he had seen it. Only that episode had ever really bugged her.

The knowledge of your horrible fate, hanging over your head.

What was she going to tell her father? Vincent had been pretty much mum since they'd gotten back on the road, and she was more than content to keep it that way. A part of her burned with fury, knowing how she was being manipulated, how she was being used, and the other part shuddered regularly in fear, knowing her life might be over after this one night, than these might be her last hours to live. Which only made the rage worse, as it was all directed at him.

She knew the route by heart. She was surprised to find herself already climbing up the winding street that led to her father's house, her headlights barely making a discernable path before her. She found the right driveway, and pulled in, tucking the car deep into a pocket by the garage, not wanting to block the main door. It was an old habit, one Ray had instilled in her, about never letting your car ever block anything else. She considered that her father wasn't going to go anywhere that night, he certainly wasn't much of a wanderer, but she was clearing the way anyway, grasping at the familiar patterns of her life, trying to stay somewhere within normal.

She turned off the engine and glanced up into the rearview, expectant. He looked back at her, his eyes dark in the shadows, his hair seeming less silver and more a dirty brownish-gray. "Here's your story," he said softly. "I'm a friend."

"A friend in an expensive suit who rides around with me in my cab after midnight?" she quipped.

His eyes moved out of the shadows, pierced her for a moment, and then he resumed in that same low voice, slurred together in the slight way of someone speaking quickly. "You had an accident. Ran into a deer."

She cocked an eyebrow. She wanted to echo, "A deer?" but didn't dare push her luck.

"You didn't know who else to call. You knew I worked a night shift, so you called me. You wanted to make sure that the cab still ran all right, so we took a ride. You were upset so you wanted to go see your dad."

Looking away, Callie gazed toward the front door. It wasn't so unthinkable. "So we're friendly," she muttered.

"Aren't we?" he said, his voice still that same low-key, but that wicked twinkle back in his eyes. He pressed, "Maybe we're even dating, a little. You haven't told anybody yet because you weren't sure where it was going."

She didn't want to look at him now, didn't want to see his amusement at the obvious discomfort this suggestion caused her. He was having too much fun reveling in the knowledge that she found him attractive. To save her dignity, she said, "Fine," and pulled back on the door handle, making it slid open.

Vincent buttoned his jacket as they approached the walk, probably to hide his gun, Callie thought, glancing at him. With the way he'd trussed her up for that club, it did conceivably look as if the two of them were out on a date. Although that didn't explain her using the cab or all of the damage to the car, either.

It occurred to her, perhaps for the millionth time, that this was totally insane. Her hand went to the screen door, familiarity only mildly soothing her nerves, and she slipped her key into the lock on the doorknob. The wooden door opened and she leaned around it, calling softly, "Dad?"

"In here!" came the reply from the living room. Within seconds, before Vincent could close the doors behind him, Callie's father, Raymond Fanning, Sr., was standing in the small dining room that connected the kitchen and the living room, wrapped in his robe. He looked mildly started to see that his daughter wasn't alone, but he recovered quickly when Callie approached him confidently, wrapping herself in his arms for a warm hug.

"Hi, Daddy," she whispered. Ray Sr. kissed her cheek and smiled down at her before politely turning to Vincent.

"You brought a friend?"

"Yeah, this is…this is Vincent," she said, letting her awkwardness play in her favor. She looked bashfully up at her father. "We're, uh…sort of…dating."

"Sort of dating, or are dating?" Ray Sr. asked, turning smiling eyes to Vincent and extending his hand. "Raymond Fanning, nice to meet you Vincent."

"Likewise," Vincent said, and Callie noted the guarded look on Vincent's face as he took her father in.

"I had a little bang up with the cab," Callie said, rushing on as if she were embarrassed by the whole thing. "I called Vincent to help me…Ray's busy and I wasn't sure if you were up, so he came down and rescued me."

"I thought I saw something funny about the cab," Ray Sr. said, frowning as he glanced out the back window again. "What did you do, hit a deer?"

"Yeah, who would have thought you'd find deer in South Central?"

"Oh, hell, I'm surprised you didn't hit a bear or a coyote, but I know there are some deer out there too. Why are you still driving it, though? Shouldn't you have taken it back to the barn?"

At this point, Vincent stepped in. "Well, Callie was worried about her boss giving her hell over the damages. We were driving it around to make sure everything still worked okay."

Ray Sr. squeezed his daughter's shoulder. "What, Callie let her boss push her around? You haven't known my daughter too long, have you?" But his smile was gentle, teasing.

Vincent's gaze drifted to Callie. To her father, it just seemed affectionate. The intensity of the look made Callie's breath catch for a moment. "Well, we're still getting to know each other."

"I wanted you to meet him," Callie interjected, just to put the finishing touches on the lie. She squeezed her arm around her father's waist. "I'm sorry I've been keeping it from you guys, I've just been so busy lately—"

"No, sweetie, don't sweat it." Ray Sr. made a motion with his head to indicate they follow him into the dining room. "Come on, let's sit down and talk, get to know each other. I'll make us a snack. You hungry, Vincent?"

"Famished," Vincent replied with his most cordial smile.

8888888888

One of Ray Sr.'s talents was the art of sandwich making. Vincent watched as the man stacked everything carefully, laid out the sliced onions, the lettuce, the butter pickles and then spread equal parts mustard and mayonnaise over the top layer of bread, where it would touch the meat. Cheese was placed between the pieces of roast beef and sliced chicken, one Swiss and another darker, looked like a mild cheddar. Then he cut it, corner to corner in both directions, and pinned it through with toothpicks, just like a restaurant, and served it with some chips from a bag on the top of the fridge.

He hesitated to dig in. Vincent wasn't much of an eater when he was on the job. Hunger was one of those alien sensations to him, like remorse and lust. He glanced over at Callie. He'd hit two out of three that night, might as well go for broke.

She was already eating, devouring her sandwich with a ravenous appetite that belied her situation. People were strange in situations of stress. Some lost all appetite and some buckled down like pigs in their slop bins. Although she was considerably neater.

They chatted. It was light, friendly banter, with Ray Sr. asking him what he did. Vincent talked about how he was a private consultant, that he spent a lot of time traveling, and made up something about meeting Callie on campus, where he was doing a part-time teaching job, passing on some of what he knew.

"That's rough, traveling all the time," Ray Sr. said. "You like it?"

"It's all right," Vincent replied. "Some places are nicer than others."

"Vincent's not an L.A. fan," Callie murmured, finishing her glass of soda.

Ray Sr.'s eyebrow arched. "Well, it's not for everybody, Cal. I'm personally thrilled I live all the way out here. Where I can see the city lights without drowning in them. When I was younger I had to travel, leave Callie and her brother and mother for a week on end at times. I always hated it. I guess it's easier on single people."

"Yeah," Vincent said in a low voice. He caught Callie rubbing her eyes, saw the tiredness in her jaw. Her father was much quicker, though.

"You want to lie down for a bit, sweetie?" he said, placing a comforting arm on her shoulder. "You've had a rough night, with this accident and all."

Callie managed to suppress most of a rather bitter, ironic laugh. "No, Dad, I pass out and I'm done for at least a few hours, and Vincent's taking time from his very busy schedule to help me out." She cast him a look. "I don't want to keep him too long. But the snack was great, I feel recharged."

"You didn't eat dinner again, did you?" Ray Sr. sighed at Callie's sudden look. "You don't take care of yourself, Callie! I've told you again and again that a body needs energy. I don't care about this getting thin nonsense. You mess up your metabolism and you certainly won't lose any weight, anyway!"

"I'm not trying to lose weight," Callie said, fidgeting. "I just get…caught up in stuff."

Ray Sr. turned to Vincent. "Contrary to modern society," he said, addressing whom he thought was Callie's potential suitor, "I don't believe in all this being skinny as a twig. Callie's mother wasn't skinny, she had curves where a woman needs curves."

"Dad," Callie grunted, getting up and putting her plate in the sink. She started to rummage through cabinets at this point, almost nervously.

"All this pressure to look a certain way, act a certain way. Your mother would roll over in her grave if she knew you were starving yourself!"

"I'm not starving myself!" Callie said, bending down and managing to find a back of chocolate chips. "Look, see, chocolate, I'm going to stuff my face! Happy?"

Vincent smirked. It was echoed by Ray Sr.'s amused harrumph. "Now, don't get carried away in the other direction."

Callie just gave him a completely flustered look and shoved a handful of chocolate into her mouth.

Ray Sr. turned to Vincent. "You know, I'm not going to totally embarrass Callie by asking you if you're one of those guys that insists on girls being skinny as rails—"

"I'm not," Vincent said, with the kind of level-headedness that utterly convinced Ray Sr. within seconds. "I promise."

"Good. You want some coffee? You need any more caffeine to get you through the night? I'm making some for Callie, she always needs at least a liter of it before she goes back out the door. Did you bring your thermos, Cal?"

Callie had finished her temporary chocolate attack and was rolling the bag back together and rubber-banding it. "No, I forgot it in the car, Dad. I can go get it—" Vincent jumped, ever so slightly. Just a quick jerk of his eyes toward her, showing her his displeasure at this plan. She understood, instantly, and amended, "No, wait…oh, hell, I left it at home. I didn't get to dishes last night and it's in the sink, dirty."

"No problem, you can borrow mine. I'm not taking it anywhere, anyway." He started to get the coffee maker ready, opening up a glass container of ground coffee beans and pouring a healthy amount into a filter, then slapping everything in place and getting the concoction started. "Why don't we go sit in the living room? It's more comfortable. Callie, I still think you should put your head down for a minute. You used to do those power naps, remember? They always helped you."

Callie was cleaning melted chocolate off her fingers. "Yeah, I guess I can try that," she murmured, not convincingly. She shot Vincent a nervous glance as the man stood up and watched Ray Sr. retreat into the living room, expecting his guests to follow. He motioned with his hand, and she scooted out in front of him.

"You're fine," he whispered so only she would hear. "Just keep it cool."

The living room was cozy, as all rooms in California had a tendency to be. There was an old barkalounger in one corner, obviously the prized seat in the house, and a small overstuffed couch against one wall. The television was on the other side, and the rest of the room was taken over by pictures

Vincent's eyes couldn't help but roam to them. They covered the walls, sometimes in single sets, sometimes hung in group frames, smaller pictures peeking out from different shapes in the lining of the frame. Pictures of a family's life.

It gave him pause. He watched as Ray Sr. made himself comfortable in his chair, and Callie sunk into the corner of the couch closest to him, familiar, trusting.

And for the second time that night, he had a very uneasy feeling.

This man was not the kind to reject his children. This man was not the kind to ever raise his hand in anger and smack his daughter or his son across the face. It was envy, Vincent suddenly realized. Envy for this father who was so much of what he should be.

Callie's nervous expression didn't hold for long. In her secure position at her father's feet, there was a relaxation there that seemed to surround her like an aura, as if there she couldn't be touched, that there wasn't anything anyone could do to harm her, least of all Vincent, while she was there. Her body language screamed of trust, cried out that even in this crisis she endured, sitting here, by her father, was a reassurance that was so soothing, it was almost as if her father could actually protect her from anything.

He wanted to feel the cruel irony of that situation. He wanted to relish the fact that he could easily kill them both, right this second, and not bat an eye. That if he demanded it, he could submit her to the most humiliating of situations, right there for her father to watch, and there wasn't a damn thing the old man could do about it.

Those thoughts did not appeal to him. Instead, they nauseated him. As Ray Sr., in an unconscious gesture of affection, reached over and ruffled Callie's hair, Vincent could almost believe that this was a safe place, that maybe it was the sort of place he wanted, that he had always wanted.

But no. This night was far from over. Three down, two to go.

Callie glanced up, seeing that Vincent was hovering in the doorway, not quite at his ease. He knew she was looking at him, and even let her stand up, trying to pry her away from that ease she had suddenly picked up.

"Daddy, I think we need to go," Callie said, when Ray Sr. noticed her move. "Vincent's got to get back, and I should finish my shift. I'll come by tomorrow afternoon, we can have lunch, okay?"

Her voice trembled slightly over the last words. Vincent's eyes inadvertently went to the pictures, stepping closer to them. "We still have a few minutes," he heard himself saying. "Is this your mother?"

He pointed to the picture of a dark-haired woman, large brown eyes, full lips, having a definite Greek air about her. It was her wedding picture, and her dress was a bit much, all ruffles and lace, but she seemed happy, and so very, very young.

"Yes," Callie said. "That's her wedding portrait. That's one of her taken closer to when she…when she died."

Vincent turned his eyes to a group of pictures. It was from a Christmas holiday, Mom in the kitchen, family opening presents, sitting around the table. The picture was such a collage of perfection that for a moment, Vincent felt as it someone had struck him directly in the gut.

It wasn't like he hadn't seen facsimiles of perfection before, but none of them had seemed so real.

Callie was in a few of the pictures, a spindly girl of thirteen or fourteen, braces and pony-tails, all legs and no chest. She had her arms around her mother in one picture, which was surprising considering she was just at the age where she should be starting to push her family away in the adolescent search for independence. Instead, her arms were wrapped firmly around her mother's waist, and her chin was resting on her mother's shoulder, and the two were both beaming, wearing matching sweaters that might have been gifts on that very day.

Callie chuckled in the back of her throat. "Oh, God, Dad, I'd almost forgotten about that one," she said, pointing to it. "That was such a joke. My Aunt Carolyn thought it would be funny to buy me and my mother matching sweaters the year before," she told Vincent. "And so we put them on and said that each year we would take a picture in them, and send it to Aunt Carolyn to remind her of her faux-poi. (sp?)" She paused, a breath of pain in her throat. "This was the only year we were able to do it."

Vincent nodded, glancing at Callie. Then his eyes drifted to Ray Sr., who had turned on the television, and was absently flipping the dial. When he turned back, as Callie went to get her coat, his eyes met Vincent's.

"She and her mother were very close," he said in a low voice, so only Vincent would hear. "It's hard for her to talk about her."

Vincent just nodded in understanding. And felt yet another strange, peculiar feeling. As if he understood exactly how Callie felt.

He had never understood how anyone felt before. It just hadn't been important.

Suddenly uncomfortable in that stifling house, he shook Ray Sr.'s hand goodnight and managed to get Callie out into the driveway. Just being outside was a good change. He followed Callie to the car, and they rounded the corner, disappearing from the view of the house.

"Callie," he said. "Wait."


	6. I Dare You To Move

Disclaimer: Don't own Collateral, and I don't own the song that I named this chapter for. Although I was listening to it pretty heavily while I was conceiving this fic. 

Thanks for the nice comments from the reviewers, both about this story and about _Purity_, which I think really should have been named _Fearless_, but it's too late to change it now. **And to answer a question** I was asked about Colin Farrell: One of his first big-budget movie roles was playing Det. Danny Whitwer, Tom's character's nemesis in the movie _Minority Report_, not one of Tom's best flicks, but very good to Colin. I love Colin Farrell (as an actor and a looker) so my comment wasn't supposed to be negative toward him in any way, just amused.

P.S. This chapter is slightly shorter than the previous ones, but it's packed with angst so I hope you enjoy it.

**_Chapter Six: I Dare You To Move _**

(A half-hour ago)

Ray was having a difficult night. It wasn't so much that it was a bad night, but it was definitely not one of his best. That was the way of being a cop, though. You were only really busy when things were going very, very wrong.

Ramón was supposed to have shown up at their meeting place, and an hour passed with no Ramón in sight. So Ray rolled to his apartment, and found him shot dead in the middle of his living room floor, Chinese food flung all over the place, staining the cheap tile with the thick, dark sauce that had dried into the color of blood.

One in the head, two in the chest. This was a professional hit, the corner said. Ray went to the hospital, to the morgue, for the official report. Danny was there, on shift as usual. The two of them knew each other on and off, and Danny fancied himself to be a bit of a detective. He was actually pretty good at it, too.

Then, things had gone from bad to worse. Sylvester Clark had come in, not twenty minutes later, just as Ray was about to leave, about to go shake up some people that he knew were part of Ramón's regular routine, see who had talked to him last, who could have hit him so professionally. Street punks didn't shoot in such tight groups, Danny pointed out. The shots were mere millimeters apart in the chest.

Sylvester Clark had the exact same wound pattern.

Ray called Richard. Richard wasn't a bad cop, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he was a bit lazy, as most cops were. Ray looked street, but he was by the book. Richard looked by the book, but he was street. It was a fitting complimentary relationship, in spite of the fact that the two of them had a tendency to bash heads like the best of headbangers.

Richard was sleeping. "Yeah?" he said, his voice fuzzy.

"Yeah, I'm down here in the morgue, Sisters of Charity, and you'll never guess who they just rolled into the meat locker."

More awake now. "Who?"

"Sylvester Clark, criminal attorney turned lawyer criminal. And he has the same wound pattern as Ramón, whom he represented. There's something going on."

"Both done by the same shooter?"

"I think we're looking at a highly paid assassin. Only question is, why?"

"Felix Reyes-Torena," Richard said. "Do the Feds know about this?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, we can go tell them, but you know they're just going to take our stuff and use it to build their own case."

"What, so we shouldn't tell them?"

"I just know how excited you get, Ray."

"Fuck you."

"I love you too. Listen, stay on your cell, I'll make the calls and hook up with you in a half-hour."

"Good." He hung up. If his C.I. flew out a window with Felix's handprints on it, fuck the Feds—that made it HIS. And if that meant Sylvester Clark, too, so be it. L.A.P.D. didn't work for the Feebs, as they were not-so-affectionately called.

He left the hospital, picked up his cell-phone, pressed the number 3 where Callie's phone was sure to go off. He'd made damn sure that they all had the best cellular network money could buy. "Hey, Ray," she said, seeing his ID pop up in the window. There was something…off about her voice. But with the night he was having, he could just be getting paranoid.

"Callie, what's going on? You really busy?"

"Yeah, it's been a crazy night," she said, her mouth straying from the phone for a moment, causing it to fade slightly. "What is it?"

He drew a breath. God, he needed her not to give him any sass, he wasn't sure how he'd react at the moment, and he hated yelling at her. "Well, I know we already had this discussion "

"That's never stopped you before."

"I really want you to go over and visit dad," Ray said.

"Not this again," she sighed, wearily. Ray winced.

"Callie, he's having a rough night. His insomnia is really bad; he needs some company. I would go over in a heartbeat, but I stumbled into a crime scene about an hour ago and now I'm getting dragged all over town."

"Crime scene?" There was a sudden interest in her voice, not something uncommon. She had cop tendencies, she was studying criminology, but hell he wished she would find another line of work. "What's going on?"

"Same old bullshit in L.A., really," Ray said, "but one of my leaks got shot, and supposedly one of his higher-ups is dead, too. I'm bogged down, I'll be lucky to get off shift three hours late. Come on, Cal, drop off your fare and head on over, five minutes. I'll really owe you."

There was a pause. A sigh. And then, he swore he could just pick up the faintest traces of sound. If she was driving then she probably had a fare in the back seat, but the sound of the weather, the cold evening wind, was too clear, she might be outside. Someone was talking to her, he couldn't make out a single word. Then, she said, guardedly, "I'll see. But I can't promise."

He decided to let it go, relieved that she was being that cooperative, at least. "That's enough," Ray said, "Love you. Thanks."

"Love you too." She hung up the phone, more abruptly than usual. Ray knew she was mad at him but he'd make it up to her. After all, she was the closest thing to Mom he had, and he'd die before he let anything happen to her.

8888888888

(Now)

"Callie," Vincent said, outside of her father's house, "wait."

She stopped at the trunk of her car. She looked stiffly over her shoulder, not quite sure what to think. In a way, she was relieved to be out of her father's house, to have her father out of danger. It had not escaped her for a single moment what Vincent was capable of, and how he was watching her. She played as if nothing was wrong, determined to protect her father; now it was over, and she was glad.

Then again, she was also furious. Because now, standing out there with him, in the cold night California air, outside of her house, her shield, her protection, she was at his mercy, and she loathed him for it.

He closed some of the distance between him. His eyes were distant, gazing off down the driveway, toward the sparkling view that could be seen just above the treeline.

"What?" she asked, keeping the snip out of her voice. She folded her arms, realized that she was still in that silly thin tank that Vincent had made her strip down to before going into that club. She decided to use her nervous energy to button up her coat, making sure all the snaps were tightly in place.

He stepped around her, and went and leaned against the car. "You come visit your father every night?"

"We have a routine," she said, her discomfort shifting, but not decreasing.

"Why don't you live with him anymore?"

She started. It wasn't any of his business, but now her psychological skills were starting to kick back in. The shock and fear was slowly starting to pass and her brain could unclench and think for a change. "Well, I guess like any red-blooded American young adult, I wanted some independence."

Vincent cast her a sideglance before his eyes went back to the dark horizon. "But you don't really have it, do you?"

She folded her arms, more to protect herself from the steadily increasing chill than in defiance. "Well, I guess nobody really does. But living on my own is nice. I like it. I can do what I want, go where I was…most of the time," she added, with a bit of an edge. "I don't have to worry about bothering him."

"But you do," Vincent said, now fully turning his face to her. "Because you care about him."

She frowned slightly. There was something there, something she couldn't quite pinpoint. There was a kind of disconnectedness in his expression, as if neurons were firing and trying to meet, but kept missing. There was something that was baffling him.

"Of course I do," she said slowly. "He's my dad. I love him."

Vincent nodded, looked down. "What about your mother?"

"Well, Mom's been gone for a while. I always was mostly a daddy's girl, anyway."

Vincent chuckled lightly. "I've always been curious about that expression."

"You've never known a daddy's girl before?"

"What does it mean?"

This puzzled her. His question was so simple, like a child asking what clouds were made of, that she was thrown. "Well, basically, it means that my father spoiled me, he was the good parent for me. Not that he played favorites, but I sort of favored him over Mom."

"So you put him before your mom." A sudden tightness there. "Your Mom, who carried you in her womb for nine months."

"Oh, don't get me wrong," she said quickly. "I loved my Mom, too. But, well, there's something about losing a parent during adolescence. It has certain repercussions. I sort of got pushed closer to my dad, him being my only surviving parent, and it made us a lot closer. But yeah, it was mostly like that when I was a little kid, too. Mom was constantly on him for being too soft with me."

"You remember your mother?" Softer now, more innocent. She could hardly believe this was the same man she'd watched gun down two punks in an alley, all within a few seconds. "What was she like?"

"What's anybody's mother like?" Callie said absently, not quite thinking about her words. "She was more laid back than my dad, my dad's a fusser. But when it came to raising children, my mother had systems, psychology, she knew exactly how to put us in our places when we got mouthy. Mom wasn't somebody you wanted to mess with, that was for sure."

"Did she ever…hit you?"

"No, Dad was the one with the belt. Mom wouldn't do it. She did so many other things that when it came to the rare occasions of corporeal punishment, she made my dad step up. But hitting wasn't something that happened too often after we got out of our elementary years. Except for the occasional tap on the cheek when I was disrespectful."

She stepped closer to him as she talked, amazed at how intently he was drinking all of this information in. As if she were giving him the answers to life, the universe, and everything. "Why do you want to know all of this, Vincent?" she asked, whispering so that the words couldn't possibly sound abrasive.

He looked away, and she noticed that his face had turned to a strange sort of pale, with bright patches of red here and there. The lines in his features were much deeper in the distorted, shadowy light, and she couldn't quite see his eyes anymore. Except that they looked very sad.

"I envy you," he whispered.

For several moments, she found she couldn't breathe. That he would say such a thing, such a vulnerable thing in such a situation, was enough to completely throw her. So she stayed silent.

"You have so much," he went on. "At least you knew your mother."

She drew a deep breath before asking the inevitable question. "What about your father?"

The question was like a sudden jolt of electricity, the way it ran through his body. He seemed to try to shake it out at the other end, but it wouldn't go. "No, my dad…didn't have much to do with me. Well, when he wasn't drunk or beating me up, anyway. I spent a lot of time in foster homes."

She made a silent "O" with her lips, unsure if she should apologize, as was the polite reaction, or if she should press on, if maybe he wanted to talk about it more, but needed to be drawn out. Looking at the Teflon steel man in front of her, she wondered how she could imagine such a thing. Yet here it was, plain as the sun in the middle of the night.

He lifted the arm closest to her, and she stayed still long enough to let him touch her, his fingers gently wrapping around her upper arm. He pulled her closer, applying only the slightest pressure. She could have been knocked over with a literal feather at that moment, most likely.

"But you," he whispered, as her face drew closer to hers, "you have something so beautiful."

"Everybody else's grass always looks greener," she attempted, but it was a pathetic one at that.

"Only in your case, the grass is actually green." Vincent paused, thoughtful. "What if it was true?" he said.

"What if what was true?"

"That we were dating, and that you brought me home tonight to meet your father. Did he like me? Would he think I was suitable?" At the look she gave him, he amended, "I mean, taking out the…obvious."

Swallowing, knowing this was impossible, she carefully picked her answer. "He seemed to like you well enough, Vincent. You were very polite."

"Yeah, but would we get along?" Vincent pressed. "Like family?"

Shaking her head, she attempted to put a few more inches of air between them. "I don't know, Vincent. It's been a very difficult—"

He reached out with the other hand and firmly drew her to him, so that she stood between his legs, which were parted slightly to get her closer. Their faces were inches apart. "You know, I'd almost hoped you'd be an unappreciative brat," he murmured. "Complain about your parents even though they're saints. But you don't. I'll be every night when you pray, you pray to your mother to watch over your father. I'll bet you're keenly aware of how much he misses her, and yet love him all the more for staying with you."

"You talk about me like I'm special," she said. "I'm just someone who's mature enough to appreciate her parents."

"Which makes you probably the most well-adjusted person I've ever known," Vincent said. And then, after a beat, he kissed her. Again.

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The motion of Vincent's lips on hers was so quick that it took her by surprise for a moment. It wasn't really a full kiss, she realized, when she pushed him away. His mouth had been open, and had gently rested on the corner of hers, fully expecting her to kiss him back. The surprise and – was it? – hurt on his face threw her, and she wasn't quite sure what to do for another second.

Surely he couldn't be serious.

His face, which had been so cold for most of the night, shifted slightly. The way he stared at her, as if he were sizing her up, had now become a careful scrutiny of her expression, trying to read her. For a moment, she felt an embarrassing flush of shame – the only other time in her life she had ever been looked at like that was when she had upset her father, which was rare, and he was more hurt than angry at her behavior, that she would treat him, _him_, that way of all people.

Then, he stepped close to her again, his face gentling a bit, but a glint of malice in those strange green eyes. "Your father might be watching us," he said, so softly that it was more of a breath than a whisper. "You wouldn't want him to think anything was wrong, would you? You wouldn't want him to come out here, thinking you might be in danger, and then wind up getting hurt himself, would you?"

Her teeth clenched together behind her closed lips. Vincent did not miss the tightening her jaw and instantly regretted his words, and then hated himself for regretting them. He did _not_ regret. He was _indifferent_.

_But this_, a small, barely audible voice inside his head said to him, _is a new low_.

Ignoring it, he pulled her back to him, gently, wanting to do something to get her to unclench. His hands found her hips and slipped under the waist of her coat, feeling her warmth underneath radiating from the thin silkiness of her coat.

She looked away. Her revulsion came off her in waves, her anger making her eyes terribly dark.

He opened his mouth. "I'm…" _I'm _what_, I'm _sorry_? Yes, that's the only way to reach her now, apologize, suck it up and apologize. It'll be even better if you let her see how hard it is._ "I'm sorry, Callie," he said. "Really."

Her eyes darted back up to his, guarded, lips still pursed in anger. The muscles in his face were twitching now, just barely underneath the surface. He tried to cover it up by turning his head, wiggling his jaw, but she saw it. Her eyebrows twitched a little, smoothing over her expression just the tiniest bit.

He moved his hands down to the jean-clad hips, out of the warmth of her jacket. He was careful not to make his touch too intimate now, he had her on the ropes and one slip would lose her again. "I'm just not," he went on, "I'm just not used to…I don't know. Seeing normal people. I don't even think I know what normal is."

_What the hell are you talking about?_

More softening. There was no warmth in her eyes, but she didn't seem as angry to him anymore. "You're so used to manipulating people," she said, her voice thin and fragile, "you don't have any idea how to carry a normal conversation, do you?"

"I don't know if I'd go that far," he said with a mild grin. "You and I weren't doing so bad at the beginning of the night." He paused, considering her. _Carefully, carefully_. "You know, when you picked me up, you said something about a guy named Max. Was that the driver in front of us?"

Puzzled, she frowned. "Yeah?"

"So technically, since he was first in line, I was supposed to get into his cab, right?"

_Ah ha_. Hit home. She almost seemed to wilt, as if he'd struck her. "Well, you're the customer, you do whatever the damn hell you want," she managed.

"Yeah, but courtesy and all of that, the unspoken bond between cab drivers not stealing each other's fares. Yet you took me anyway." He raised one eyebrow slightly. "Why?"

Her cheeks were starting to turn red. Almost imperceptibly, he moved his hands up, just at the edge of the warmth. "I…I don't know. Max owes me a few favors anyway; I didn't think he'd care. Besides, I was bored, just sitting there."

He made a slight clicking sound with his tongue. "Surely your father taught you that it's bad to lie."

Full on scarlet stained her cheeks now. Her eyes had gone hazy, distant, a desperate attempt to escape the stress of the situation. Using the opportunity, he lifted one hand to the snaps on her jacket. His knuckles pressed ever so gently against her breast through the denim.

"You were attracted to me?" he whispered, ruffling the thin hairs around her ear. She shivered as one snap came undone.

"Never trust your first impression," she muttered. Humor was the last defense. He slipped two fingers into her jacket as he undid the next snap. She wasn't pulling away.

"Oh, always trust your first impression," Vincent smiled. "Maybe I went with you because I thought the same thing."

Confusion fluttered all across her face. He had her on the ropes and he just kept yanking her around. In a few more minutes she was going to be helpless. He made himself stay focused and slow as he undid the snaps, one by one, and watched as she struggled to think. When his hands finally slipped inside, caressing her curves, reaching up and finding her breasts, her eyes shut and she was almost scowling with the effort that took. He shifted his weight, his fingers enjoying the softness of her body and the slinky sensation of the shirt, as he pulled her farther and farther into his grip. Soon, her face was resting against his, the bridge of his nose pressed against her forehead, so he had a front row view to her face and how she was fighting back against her attraction.

It was so amusing, how the human body could rebel so completely against the mind and the heart. As a finishing touch, he rolled his thumbs slowly around her nipples, feeling them harden through her clothing.

She sucked in a breath, opened her eyes. She seemed to remember where she was, and her face flushed so dark, in the shadows it was nearly black. As if the effort took every ounce of strength she had, she lifted her hands and placed them on his elbows, and pushed his hands away, getting a single inch of air between them. She pulled her chin back and met his eyes, her own still glazed, but just starting to clear.

"No," she said. "No, stop."

Simple words, put in a simple, civilized tone. How could he deny that request? How could he honor it?

That was when he realized that he didn't have as much control over himself as he thought. It took tremendous effort for him to put the next inch between them. Shaking himself, he withdrew completely, looked away, back toward the sparkling horizon.

She was breathing heavily. Her mouth was dry and she was swallowing, trying to remoisten it. She pulled her coat closed but didn't snap it shut this time.

"We need to go," Vincent said. "Stop number four awaits."


	7. Don't Let Me Get Cornered

Disclaimer: Don't own Collateral, but I did watch the extra scene, which wasn't all that much to shout about. Michael Mann is very conservative with his scenes, isn't he? That guy puts film together like a surgeon…too bad he killed off a perfectly good character in a rather cheap death! (SIGH) Anyway, this chapter comes a lot from the extra scene, and from the earlier scene with the two cops. Thought I'd forgotten about that scene, huh? Well, pretty much everything from the movie is going to find its way into this story one way or another.

Special thanks to **Piper** (Winged Seraph—what happened to Plan B? It got taken down, and I was enjoying it! We can't afford to lose a good Collateral fanfic, girl! Get it fixed and back up there!), **Dawnie-7** (been with me a while, girl, where would I be without you?), **asd** (don't know your real name, but your comments are appreciated, even if they're brief) and my new reader, **Hockey-Gurl** (don't worry about not reading this fic before, it had been lost amidst the sea of Misc. fiction before the Collateral category was posted and I didn't want to move it until I could resume it)

As for the rest of youI know you're out there! Leave me a note! (Especially YOU, **Eccentric Banshee**, after all the grumbling you did! LOL)

_**Chapter Seven: Don't Let Me Get Cornered**_

"So what did you get on Clark?" Ray Fanning asked as he tossed down onto his desk chair in the busy room. The two officers who had gone over the crime scene started to flip out their notebooks, one of them cooperative, the other having a slight attitude, as most men did when they were a little too old to be wearing the uniform and yet hadn't gotten their shiny detective's star.

The younger, more cooperative one, started to read. "Shots were heard fired at approximately 11:07 p.m. One witness saw a taxi parked in the alley right before it happened. Another witness claims to have seen a man and a woman arguing briefly before the cab left the alley. The man was standing outside the cab, as if he were leaning into the driver's window. Then he got into the back and the car took off."

"Did this witness get a good look at the man or woman?" Ray asked.

The younger man turned to his older partner. The other shrugged. "Says the woman was mostly in shadow. Thought she was wearing a hat."

Ray felt a strange, prickling sensation in the back of his neck. "Was she younger, older, what?"

The cop shook his head. "Couldn't say. The man was a gray blur. This guy didn't exactly have the best vision – glasses like coke bottles."

"They weren't _that _thick," the younger man said, earning him a dirty look from his partner.

"A gray blur?" Ray pressed. "You mean he was dressed in gray?"

"And had gray hair, too," the younger cop supplied from his notes. "Gray head to toe. Thought he might be an old man who was hassling a driver."

"Well, we're not here to conjecture," Ray muttered, the tingling in his spine getting worse.

"No, that's your job," the older cop muttered briefly. Ray ignored it.

Richard came into the office. "Let's roll," he said. "I got the stake out on Felix, we're gonna go talk to the Feds."

This earned an even more bitter guffaw from the older cop. "Yeah, go talk to the Feebs, they's smarter than us anyway."

Ray shot him a perplexed look before he followed Richard out the door.

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When Ray entered the abandoned restaurant that the Feebs were using to spy on Felix Reyes-Torena, he had a particular feeling. Not one of premonition or something equal nonsensical, but as if he were stepping through a door that would forever change his life.

The introductions were made. Agent Frank Pedrosa wasn't thrilled to see them. It was apparent that he'd been instructed to help them, but he wasn't doing it willingly.

Questioned were asked. Vague questions, Ray had to admit, but the guy had an attitude and he wasn't going to give anything away. Pedrosa gave an equally vague answer. No help. Dead ends.

Ray chuckled slightly, looked away. Richard, the smarter one when it came to public relations, started to talk. He mentioned the names Sylvester Clark and Ramón Iella, and Pedrosa came to life as if someone had just hooked him up to a car battery.

"Are you telling me that Clark and Iella were both killed tonight? _Murdered_?"

"Apparently by someone who's quite professional with a gun," Ray said, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice_. It's our case, guys, drool all you want but you can't have it_.

There was a phone call on Richard's cell, disabling the man's ability to converse for a moment. Pedrosa had started to grill Ray about the condition of Ramón's apartment, how he had found him, if anyone had seen anything. No one had even known anything was going on. The closest information anyone could give was that at about that time, someone had seen a taxi sitting in the alley.

A taxi. There was that feeling again.

"Ok," Richard said, hanging up his phone, "that was a call reporting another dead body, same wound pattern, a Daniel Baker?"

"That's three," Pedrosa said, turning to the younger woman who had been identified only as Zee.

"Three what?" Ray asked dumbly.

"Witnesses," Pedrosa replied, forgetting all the previous hostility and vague words. His eyes brightened and he looked nearly grateful. For a moment he almost seemed ready to hug both Ray and his partner.

"We've got to get to the last one," Zee said, picking up her phone. She started making calls.

"What? Who?" Ray demanded, using the opening he had. Pedrosa seemed willing to talk now.

"Peter Lim, the last State Witness in our Felix Reyes-Torena indictment. We have to get him to a secure location."

"How do you know the guy is even—" Ray stopped himself, forcing himself to calm down. "Look, to do that, you're going to need help."

Pedrosa had already picked up his coat and the whole team was moving out of the small, caged area where they had set up camp. The monitoring screens were abandoned, forgotten, as they moved the whole party through the empty entrails of the restaurant and headed for the parking lot.

"You don't even know who this guy is!" Ray was arguing, even as Richard dogged his heels, trying to get him to shut up. "For all you know, he could already have taken down Lim and be on his way out of town!"

"That's a chance we'll have to take," Pedrosa snapped. "What other choice do we have?"

"Wherever Lim is, move your stake-out," Ray said. "Flush out this guy."

Pedrosa nearly laughed, shook his head. "Ain't gonna work, my friend. The guy they hired to do these hits is a very highly trained professional. He's not going to let himself get caught. And we can't risk our final witness on something like that."

"What, a real meat-eater super assassin's got you scared? What if he's already there when you reach Peter Lim? What are you going to do?"

"Take his ass down and save our witness," Pedrosa replied bluntly.

They were packing up their car, and had forgotten about both the L.A.P.D. detectives by then, and Ray found himself standing in an empty lot with Richard.

"I don't like this," Ray said.

"'Course you don't," Richard replied, bored. "Happened just like I said it would."

Ray turned to him, his eyes wide. "Look, I'm…" He hesitated, considered his words. Richard was going to think he was a fool, but he couldn't risk it. "Look, both times, they saw a taxi leave the crime scene."

"Yeah?"

"And the second time, a man and a woman were arguing. It was a woman driving the cab, and she was wearing a hat."

Richard studied him. "Ray, not every hat-wearing female taxi driver in L.A. is your sister."

Ray struggled to keep calm. "I just can't leave this alone. I'm going to follow." He looked at Richard, looked past the neat appearance, past the lazy cop, and searched for a man who was, occasionally, his friend. "Will you watch my back, or do I have to do this alone?"

Richard considered for a moment, then let out a deep, heavy sigh. "I'm going to go, just to show you that you're wrong. And when I do show you that you're wrong, you are going to owe me a serious amount of beer the next time we're off shift together."

Ray almost smiled. Almost.

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They had left the suburbs and were finally back on the main drags through town. In the silence of the car, Callie found herself staring through the windshield. The shattered windshield that looked like a spider web of glass. On top of that, the side window had been broken, so now all she could hear was a roaring in her ears from the wind that whipped past them, and she was particularly irritated about how it kept messing up her hair, which had, once upon a time, been in a neat braid, but Vincent had taken it down.

Aggravated, no, beyond aggravated, more into full-on, pissed-off mode, she was going perhaps a tad bit faster than was wise.

"Where are we going?" she asked when she finally hit a stop-light and could hear herself speak.

"You didn't hear me before?" Vincent asked, his voice sounding distant from the back seat.

"No, I can't hear shit because those punks broke my window," Callie snapped.

"Koreatown, a club called Fever, you know it?"

She sighed. "Yeah." The light changed, she pressed the accelerator.

And then heard the sound of a siren behind them.

Instantly, everything froze. She pulled up to the curve on automatic, her hands starting to shake, her belly queasy and her throat constricting. It had only been a matter of time, her driving around with this shattered windshield. Lenny was going to kill her, if Vincent didn't do it first.

"Get rid of them," came Vincent again, terse, commanding.

"It's the L.A.P.D.," she managed. "What do you suggest I do?"

"Be creative," Vincent returned. "You're a cabbie, you're a girl, talk your way out of a ticket."

She scowled at the second reference. Oh hell, her poor body couldn't take any more adrenaline. She could hardly think as it was. She felt…high, exactly, that was it, high, like she'd smoked twenty joints and then washed them down with a bottle of vodka. She hadn't been in this bad a shape since her twenty-second birthday, because she'd missed out on really getting to celebrate her twenty-first. When she came down, God knew what was going to happen…

Vincent was looking around, watching the cops get closer. She snuck a glance at him in the rearview, saw the tense expression on his face. "Look," she said, pushing through the chemical haze, "just don't…don't do anything, okay, let me do this."

"Then don't let me get cornered," he replied. "You don't have the trunk space."

She felt the world swim. Then it exploded back into focus when the cop on her passenger's side tapped on the window. She rolled it down.

"Hey, my partner's going to help you out over there," the guy said, pointing. Callie knew it was a standard diversionary tactic, just to be prepared in case the driver was a threat. Her conversations with Ray had a tendency to come in handy now and again. She turned the other way to see the second one, this one a woman, Latino and very pretty with a stern face, dark hair pulled severely back, approach with her flashlight dipping into the car.

"License and registration please," she said, her tone flat, formal. Callie automatically reached up and pulled both these items out of their flap underneath her visor, always ready for an emergency. The woman took them, looked at them carefully.

"I'm pulling you over because your windshield is smashed and your cab in unsafe to drive," she went on, meeting Callie's eyes this time. Callie nodded, squinting in the beam of the flashlight.

"I was on my way back to the barn, officer, right now," she said, her tone complacent.

"Then why are you carrying a passenger?" the cop asked, motioning her flashlight to Vincent. Callie didn't dare turn and see the expression on his face.

"Well, his stop is on my way," she said. "It's been a long night, officer, can you please just let me take the car in?"

"Sorry, your vehicle is unsafe to drive," the woman said. "We're going to do a vehicle inventory before the tow-truck gets here, so I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car. You, too, sir," she said, bending and looking directly at Vincent now.

"Is that really necessary, office? I'm just a half-a-mile from my stop."

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry. Come on," she said, motioning with her hand and giving the rest of traffic a bored glance. "Let's go. Pop the trunk."

Callie heard Vincent's voice close to her, even though he was still all the way in the back seat. "You open that trunk, they go inside."

She had to think of something. She glanced up at the officer, searching her face. Then, it hit her. Bingo.

"I'm sorry…are you Laura Cervantes?" she asked, leaning out of the window.

The woman looked surprised, blinked, looked down again. "Officer Cervantes," she corrected, her voice cool.

"Well, you might know my brother…Detective Ray Fanning, Narcotics?" Her heart was going to fall out of her mouth any second now, she was sure of it. She was amazed her lungs had the capacity to pass breath over her vocal cords so she could produce sound.

One eyebrow arched. "You're Calliope," she said. "Yes, I remember you."

Callie managed a smile. "Well, if you call my brother, I'm sure he'll be more than happy to explain that you could let me off with a warning and let me make my own way to the garage. Save the taxpayers the charge of a tow-truck?"

Officer Cervantes looked at her partner over the top of the car. He was studying the windshield, the way the glass had shattered. "How did this happen, anyway?" he asked. "Looks like something went right through the center."

"Uh…I think it was a…" Oh, come on, girl, be creative but don't be stupid. "I think that I got too close to a truck, on the freeway, you know? Spat a bunch of gravel right into my windshield." She chuckled, forcing it to sound natural. "Thought we'd been shot at for a moment, you know?"

The cop didn't look convinced. Apparently, he was one of the brighter bulbs on the Christmas tree. He could tell the difference between a hole going in and a hole going out, and this one was going out, not in. Because Vincent had been aiming his gun inside the cab when he'd fired.

"Maybe we should call your brother, Miss Fanning," Officer Cervantes said slowly. "I think maybe you're going to need his help. Could you please step out of the car, now?" She pulled on the handle, let the door slip open, then backed away, eyeing Vincent in the back seat more cautiously now.

Callie froze. She casually glanced down, moving just her eyes, to the gear by her hand. She had always appreciated the cars that put the gear shift on the floor. Her hand gently moved toward it, and she realized that in her state, she had not put the car in park, but only in neutral.

Her hand grazed the gear, pressing in the button. It moved down, slid into drive. She kept her foot tightly on the break so as not to give herself away.

Officer Cervantes had shifted her attention now to Vincent. The woman's sharp eyes seemed to miss nothing, and possess nearly an X-ray power. Her cop instincts were telling her something was very wrong about this situation.

_Lady, you have no idea._

She heard the faintest click in the back seat. Vincent had pulled back the hammer on his gun. It was more than likely someplace where the cops couldn't see it. After all, Vincent was a professional. Shooting the woman cop one more pleading glance, she realized that there was no turning back now. It was kill or be killed.

She was not going to let Vincent murder two police officers. She slammed the accelerator.

The car jerked forward so fast that her open door flipped back from the force and snapped itself shut, just barely. Vincent jerked, going half-way into the air before he righted himself enough to lean out the window and fire a single shot.

Callie didn't know if she hallucinated the scream in her panic, or if it was real. She wouldn't know for hours to come, but Vincent had hit the lady cop's partner. It was possibly the smartest move he could have made, in his situation, because the other cop was now unable to pursue, but instead had to call for medical assistance and then request that back-up be sent.

Back-up that would take time to get there. They were driving a cab. There were over four thousand cabs in L.A. alone.

"Head for the airport," Vincent rasped, by her shoulder.

"The airport?" she echoed. "Why?"

"Just do it!" he snapped, his voice temporarily reaching a rather high pitch, shaking her eardrums in spite of the wind that rushed past her head, flipping her hair in every direction.

Callie, at this moment, was convinced the squad car was following her. She looked up into her rearview but Vincent completely blocked the view, his gray head all over the back seat, looking in ever feasible direction. So she obeyed and made a run for the freeway.

She had never driven so fast in her life. She had seen chases on the news, L.A. was full of them, from intense, short, high-speed chases, to low-speed chases where the car just wouldn't stop and eventually the police had to blow out its tires. She had seem them all, been raised on them. She knew how they worked.

It would be a matter of minutes before a helicopter spotted them.

"There's the 105!" Vincent snarled, pointing with the barrel of his gun. "Go!"

It was so late at night, traffic was considerably less and the freeway was nearly empty. Callie had little trouble maneuvering her way through traffic, although the terrific speed at which she was driving made her a little nervous that she might flip the car over, or possibly lose control of it in some other way. She dodged in and out of traffic, thinking she could hear sires and see flashing lights out of the corner of her eyes. She didn't bother with the traditional exits, but instead sped on past them toward the back end entrance of LAX.

There were cabs everywhere.

The traffic was still tremendous at the airport, even at this hour of the night, but she knew what she was doing. Maneuvering through heavy traffic was nine tenths of a cabbie's job. She managed to duck and weave her way around several large airport shuttles and rental buses, and even when she was sure she did see flashing lights coming from her right, her flying hair simply would not let her get a closer look.

So she focused on the job. She drove.

Finally, finally, they came out and blended back into traffic, just as neatly as before. She almost went back to the 105, but Vincent stopped her.

"Take the 405," he ordered, his voice cold, angry.

She obeyed. She hated the 405, but it was much less obvious than going back the way they came. Or maybe the police were smarter than she gave them credit for – _after all_, a wry voice said, _look at your brother_ – and they would figure them out. At any rate, as she moved into the heavier traffic of the next freeway, she began to calm down, the adrenaline leaving her system, sending her crashing into a numb state, and her brain was finally unleashed so that she could think calmly.

They had gone through the airport to blend in with the other taxis. And because no helicopter could enter that restricted airspace. It was a brilliant plan, and she had followed it to the letter.

So why was Vincent pissed at her?

"This exit," Vincent said, his voice strained. She turned off the exit, and found herself in a rather lonely corner of Los Angeles, surrounded by industry that was long since closed, small, shack-like businesses that boarded their doors and windows at night, and wide, empty streets no one dared to walk. She rolled to a stop at a light, which seemed to be stuck on the color red.

"That was stupid," Vincent said, the anger now simmering.

"What was stupid?" she asked, feeling like an idiot savant, able to do tremendous things behind the wheel of a car but unable to function like a normal human being. Even her tongue felt swollen as she tried to talk.

"Attempting to bolt like that," Vincent continued, the steam of his rage starting to ease off on the sides. "It would have been better if we'd just shot them."

Callie jerked a little. "You mean if _you _shot them," she corrected.

Vincent, she realized, now that she could turn her head a little more, the paralytic shock starting to wear off, had continued to jerk his head around in every possible direction, and he turned to her briefly, disdain in his face. "Yeah, me," he snapped. "Doesn't matter now, you're wanted for evading arrest. You're right in this with me."

She glared at him. "She wasn't going to arrest us," she said coolly. "She was going to arrest _you_."

"How do you figure?"

"_She_ figured. She had you all figured out. I could see it." Callie looked away. "I'd rather be a fugitive than be responsible for you shooting two perfectly good police officers."

Vincent chuckled, a low, throaty sound in the back of his mouth. "So you were trying to be a hero, huh?"

The light finally changed. She jerked the accelerator again, causing his head to flip back for a second, making an unpleasant jerking motion. "Fat lot of good it did," she grumbled. "Did you manage to kill one of them?"

"The one on my side, I think. I'm not sure." He said it so casually, as if they were having a normal conversation. "Now, Koreatown. Let's go."

Callie slipped into a sullen, angry silence throughout the drive.

A/N: People who review will get free rides through the airport with Vincent in the back seat…provided they don't mind running from the police at the time. Void where prohibited by law.


	8. Everything But The Polish Cavalry

Disclaimer: Been there, done that, don't own anything. 

A/N: And at last, the chapter all of you have been waiting for…the _Fever_ scene! This remains possibly my favorite sequence throughout the movie. And there are a lot of good sequences, y'know? (of course you know, otherwise you wouldn't be reading Collateral fanfic). I just hope I didn't blow it. I just get in a hurry to post the next chapter, because I live for the reviews...if I really bombed it I'm totally open to adjusting it. So without further ado…

_**Chapter Eight: Everything But The Polish Cavalry **_

Callie had been to a few nightclubs in her day, but not many. Fever was nothing like she'd ever set foot inside.

It was a black-lit swamp of writhing bodies and thrumming music. The close atmosphere was nearly claustrophobic, even though the main room itself stretched for thousands of yards. Screens filled the upper part of all the walls, lining the ceiling, each showing images of people dancing and doing other things that looked erotic at the subliminal-quick flash they went across her field of vision.

It was long after midnight. It had to be getting close to one in the morning. It was a weeknight and this place was singing like a beehive in the middle of September. Still, the people came, in and out, running to and fro across the street, some drunk out of their minds, high, or both, and the occasional one that was fresh for the taking, ready to lose their sanity and their sobriety to the fever pitch that was the Korean club called Fever.

Somehow, they had managed to leave the cab in the large alley behind the building, which was just as busy as the front entrance, with people swarming in and out at their own pace with the occasional bouncer keeping anyone from idling too long. This wasn't some exclusive place where you had to pay to get past the front doorman, it had its own unique system and Callie had no inclination to decipher at the moment. She numbly followed Vincent's lead as he dragged her out of the driver's seat and into the narrow doorway of the club.

Outside, it had been cold. Inside, it sweltered with the heat of moving bodies. A thin haze filled the air above them, and whether it was some kind of mist effect or the steam rising from the flesh, Callie couldn't tell. She noticed that the far walls were much nicer than the ones around the common dancing floor – although where the dance floor started and ended, she had no idea, as everything seemed to be one giant wiggling mass of arms and legs. There was the soothing effect of running water down several of the transparent fiberglass walls, and around the bar area. How anyone could need anything soothing in this place was beyond her.

Then again, at this moment, it was all beyond her. Callie had lapsed into a state of utter apathy. Her brain had overloaded on the night's events, and now she was a zombie, an empty puppet letting Vincent pull her strings.

He made her walk in front of him. He murmured in her ear, just loud enough for her to make out, "One step ahead, one pace to the left." She wasn't quite sure how she followed those directions, but there was no jerking hand, nothing to correct her. She must be doing something right.

_Or maybe_, a dry little voice commented from the center of her brain that still cared, _you've wandered too far from him and he just hasn't noticed_.

She was surprised to find her chin swinging around to make sure he was still there, and sure enough she caught the flash of silver-gray at her shoulder. He darted a look at her, his eyes flickering silvery-blue in the black-light. But no, he was occupied with other things. She turned her head back, nearly rolling her eyes.

_Wake up, girl. This is still serious business_.

Her eyes wandered around the room. Everyone here was skinny and beautiful…well, maybe beautiful was an exaggeration, but they were certainly shapely made in this end of town. Delicately, graceful arms lifted in the air, swaying to the beat, hips jerking back and forth in distinctly sexual motions, legs long and slender, narrow hips, perky breasts. Even the men were pretty, flopping their manes of straight hair that either hung black or had the distinct multi-colored hue of _Hot Topic_ hair dyes.

She didn't belong here. It occurred to her that Vincent didn't belong here, either, but maybe Vincent just didn't belong anywhere, so what did that matter?

Vincent…she felt a low level thrum of anger in the back of her skull. Vincent, who had manipulated her this entire evening. Vincent, who had forced her and coerced her and taken advantage of her at every turn, and when that didn't work, he resorted to bullying or brute force. Vincent, with his features of a Roman god, his eyes like emerald pools, a smile that rivaled the sun, and hands that made her melt with their knowing touch, all the right pressure in all the right places. Vincent with his gun and his briefcase and his expensive gray suit.

She was clenching her teeth when he stopped her. The motion sent a jolt through her stomach that she recognized as pure animal fear. It passed, but left a nasty wake of loathing and resentment behind, causing her eyebrows to permanently furrow and make a line between her eyes.

"Move fifteen paces in front, three to the left. Wander, and innocent bystanders get the first rounds."

She blinked, then looked toward where he indicated. It was close to the bar, at an empty spot that she could reach if she moved quickly enough. He wanted her to wait.

"Why the hell don't you just leave me here?" she said over her shoulder, and then thought her voice might be too low for him to hear.

She felt his eyes turn on her. She moved her head, then her body, wanting to face him, wanting to stare him down. Somehow, being surrounded by people seemed to make her feel safer, even though she knew damn well that Vincent would start shooting every living thing he saw if he felt so inclined.

The look on his face warned her, plainly. _Just do as you're told_.

She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to ask him why the hell didn't he just either let her go, or shoot her then and there. She was tired, she didn't want this anymore. She was sick, sick with the emotional pain of being jerked around like a toy all night, being swung back and forth between the line of exhilaration and terror.

He had looked away for a moment, his eyes anxiously searching. Apparently, he'd found what he'd come for – or rather, who – and was anxious to get on with his business. He darted her another glance, this time with an eyebrow mildly raised. _What are you waiting for?_

She turned, obeyed. The space by the bar was temporarily closed, but managed to just open again by the time she reached it.

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"What the fuck is that?" Ray snapped, although he knew perfectly well what it was. It was a taxi.

The hit man was already here.

The FBI had long since arrived, their cars parked in all sorts of illegal positions with their red lights flashing to indicate they could do as they needed.

Richard was rather calm as they got out of the car and headed for the narrow back entrance. Ray took a slight detour and headed for the driver's side window of the cab, checking.

"Ray, come on," Richard called, not wanting the man to do something stupid, like panic. Ray wasn't necessarily inclined to panic, he was very much by the book, very good at doing the procedure, and for those reasons, he was usually quite successful. But when it came to his family, especially his sister, he had a tendency to go a little nuts.

Ray bent down, raised a hand to ward off the streetlight glare on the window, and peered inside. Sitting on the driver's seat was a hat. A hat of blue suede, a hat his sister usually wore. And her scarf was slung over the back of the passenger seat.

Just then, the cellular phone at Richard's waist went off. Ray nearly jumped, eyes wide, temporarily frozen in a moment of panic. Richard answered; there was police jargon, and then finally a name.

"Detective Ray Fanning," came the crackling voice. Richard lifted the phone away from his lips, like a police radio, so Ray could hear it.

"This is Detective Widener, I'm with Detective Fanning," he said.

"Officer Cervantes just radioed in with an urgent message for you," came the voice, undistinguishable at the moment, as Ray was already grasping for the phone. It continued, unhindered. "She reports that your sister, Calliope Fanning, was just reported as being involved in a high speed pursuit in" Cackling static cut off the location.

"Repeat, this is Fanning, repeat," Ray said.

"Officer reported down. Calliope Fanning was the driver of a taxi, with an unidentified man in the back seat being the shooter. When the cab was pulled over for a shattered windshield, she refused to exit the vehicle and then proceeded to drive off. They were last seen heading into L.A.X., but their location is now uncertain."

Richard scowled. Some shoddy police work, that's what it was. Even he, being as laid back as he was, wasn't so sloppy. And no doubt, it was someone who owed Ray a huge favor that was making this call go through.

Ray looked back at the taxi. The windshield was shattered.

"Report that I have apprehended the vehicle," Fanning said, juggling the phone against his ear as he grasped for his wallet. "In pursuit of Calliope Fanning and unidentified assailant."

"Negative, Detective," the voice said, which sounded more distinguishable by the second. "Allow Detective Widener to apprehend Ms. Fanning. I shouldn't even be telling you this shit, anyway."

Ray slapped the phone shut and tossed it back at Richard. Richard barely managed to stuff it away before they were both inside the nightclub, just barely catching up to the small team of F.B.I. agents preparing to storm the front.

Pedrosa had his team getting ready to go into the thick of the nightclub. Fanning caught up with him just by the skin of his teeth. Irritated to find this L.A.P.D. detective following them, he almost turned away and ignored the intrusion, until Fanning grabbed him hard by his elbow and shoved a picture into his face.

"Look for this girl," he said. "It's my sister."

"What the fuck—?"

"Whoever our meat-eater super assassin is," Fanning barked, "he's with her. Look for her, and you'll find him."

Reluctantly, Pedrosa took the picture. He couldn't really argue with that kind of logic.

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Vincent had spotted his target. Sitting at a booth against a far wall, in an elusive, exclusive area of the club, Peter Wu, target number four, lounged with a flock of bodyguards around him.

Bodyguards…well, it was standard. Three rings of them, one patrolling the outer floor, moving back and forth like sharks in the shallows, a second one like a wall around the booth, and the third just behind the booth, all of them armed.

It was time. Vincent's mind went effectively blank and slipped into pure stalking mode. He chose a guard, and he attacked.

Weaving through the crowd like a panther through the jungle brush, he slipped between three girls who were bouncing together like a sex sandwich without noticing them. He came up behind the first guard, and sent a paralyzing kick to the small of his back, bruising spine and crippling him. Catching him in his hands, Vincent wrenched his neck and then threw him forcefully to the ground, sending one last crushing kick with his heel into the soft windpipe. Without looking down, he moved on.

The next one came a little harder, because as soon as Vincent had the guy on the ground with a heavy kick to the back of his leg, throwing the knee out backwards, and then a few hard punches. Vincent's teeth gritted with the effort, and to his amazement, he found himself…actually _enjoying_ kicking the crap out of a few people.

There was a nasty voice in the back of his head. _Little Callie's got you all riled up. All hot and bothered_.

The third guard came, and Vincent knew his cover was blown. Even in this sea of bodies, someone was bound to notice the downing of the guards. But no matter, he easily counter-assaulted the man and then drew his weapon, pointing it at his temple, the back of his hand flush against the side of the man's face, just in case he had to fire. He hated getting brains on his face.

Like that, he started to make his way through the crowd, with a bit less trouble this time. People were cowards, generally, and not one of those pretty little dancers was going to fuck with a guy holding a gun to another man's head, moving purposefully through the throng.

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Callie didn't see much. She caught motions, waves through the crowd of the chaos that Vincent was creating, but nothing was enough to start these cows into a stampede. Then, she happened to look over her shoulder, and her brother's face suddenly appeared.

She started. What the hell was Ray doing here? He never messed around on the clock, so that had to mean…

_Holy shit_, they'd called it in and word had come down the pipe. But how in the hell had it happened so fast? There was no way Ray had gotten over here so fast. He must have been close by at the time.

The goose pimples rose around her cheeks, a sure sign of her exhilaration. He'd been following Vincent's trail, that had to be it.

Not thinking, she turned away. All she could think of was the dead bodies, those two kids in the alley, the jazz man slumped over the table, the loud thunder of Vincent's gun exploding as she'd driven away from those two patrol officers. She couldn't let that happen to Ray.

Ray was tracking Vincent. He'd been finding the dead bodies and somehow it had led him here. As soon as she turned her head, her eyes landed on something equally upsetting.

F.B.I. agents.

It wasn't that they were particularly conspicuous, or that she was particularly astute. They just stuck out pretty badly in the middle of this club filled with Korean dancers – a big fat white guy and his pretty African-American woman partner, her with her gun drawn, him with a piece of paper in one hand and grasping at his lapel mike with the other.

The man's eyes landed on her. Recognition flared. She turned away again.

Only to run smack into Richard Widener, whom she had only met once and hardly recognized. It was the fact that he recognized her, and called her by name.

"Callie, we're getting you out of here."

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Vincent caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The thriving movement wasn't enough to block his senses from picking out something unusual, which was Callie. She wasn't following orders. She was starting to leave her designated area. Vincent's teeth ground in frustration, he was much too busy to deal with her shit at the moment.

Then he saw someone come up to her. Someone who had a cop's appearance.

That was when all hell broke loose.

There was firing coming from Peter Lim's table. Vincent saw a white man in a suit struggling with one of the Korean bodyguards in the inner circle, both of them grasping at a gun. The gun had gone off, into the crowd, and someone went down.

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Ray grasped her arm. She spun, looking up into his eyes, knowing it was all falling apart around her, disintegrating like a sugar cube in a cup of hot water. She thought he might be angry, but instead, he looked tremendously relieved.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" they said to each other at the same time, but both voices lacked venom. She wanted to hug him, wanted to rest her head against his shoulder and feel his strong arm around her back, telling her it was going to be okay, just like her father would do. It was a shame that one never appreciated one's family until the circumstances were so dire. At that moment, Callie fully realized how much she truly adored her brother.

Richard yanked her away. "I'm getting her out of here," he said.

Ray nodded. Yes, it was better if she go with Richard. Cops weren't supposed to get involved in family matters on the job. It just messed up their judgment. "Yeah, please, get her out of here." Then his dark eyes narrowed on her, the cop now looking out, plain as the nose on his face. "Who are you here with?"

"Gray hair," was all she could say, and Ray looked up, his eyes scanning the sea of dark heads that had began to stampede, now, finally, that there was a bullet in one of them, God knew who. He nodded, giving her a little push, and Richard started to drag her toward the exit.

It was slow going.

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Vincent dropped the guard, letting him fall onto the ground like the useless sack of meat he had become. He moved deeper into the crowd, now fighting against the chaos, a salmon swimming upstream. But suddenly the piranha were all around him, grasping him on every side.

One of them had a metal stick of some kind. Vincent felt the sharp _thwack _of it against his wrist, causing a high-pitched sting and then a throbbing welt.

He looked up.

Callie was between two men. One of them had a rather intimate set of body language when it came to her. The look on his face…like he wanted to kiss her. But the other one dragged her away.

They were taking her away.

Vincent glared, willing her to look at him. Her eyes turned as she was pulled away from the more familiar man, and briefly dragged across him.

He glared harder. It held. She nearly stumbled in mid-step, startled by the distant face. Distance made no difference to the intensity of that look.

The men around him were pulling and yanking and generally being very annoying. Feeling a surge of adrenaline, Vincent reached into his pocket and pulled out his switchblade, then embedded it into the nearest thigh he could find that wasn't his. Someone screamed; the crowd around him broke.

Still simmering, Vincent threw punches, grabbed the thin metal stick and did some swinging of his own, catching one or two of them across the face. He swung so hard, one of them slumped unconscious in mid-flop, and then abruptly came toppling down onto Vincent.

He caught the bodyguard drawing on him out of the corner of his eye. Falling back with the body on top of him, he used it as a shield from the incoming fire. Just as the bullets riddled the body, Vincent spun away, sliding across the now-cleared floor to his gun, and brought it up, knees bent and legs parted, firing a straight line, right into the body-guard's chest.

Vincent got onto his knees with the kind of versatility that would have made an Olympic gymnast jealous. He fired again, catching the guard in the head and taking out a few others that looked like they wanted to play, too. Then he got onto his feet and pushed the rest of the way, right up to Peter Lim.

The coward of a man was attempting to use the cheap whores around him as shields, but they were having none of it. The remaining guard from behind was on the edge of the seat, trying to pull Lim out of the way.

Vincent shot him in a blink. He put the last two bullets in his clip right into Lim's chest.

The gun was empty.

Vincent slid out the next clip. His mind briefly registered that his pocket felt lighter than it should, but there wasn't time to worry about it. He shot once more into Lim's chest, and then right into his forehead. The man hadn't been pretty to start with. Now he was just repulsive.

Smoothly, Vincent turned and headed out of the club. Callie was out of sight…for the moment.

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Richard was behind her now, propelling her forward. Callie moved down the stairs in a nearly trance-like state, and marveled secretly how this was possibly her first moment of the evenly truly away from Vincent.

The narrow door that led out into the alley was wide open and alive with the people pouring out like ants. Screams and shrieks could be heard echoing up and down the alley, the police were on their way, helicopters screamed above them, their bright lights sweeping over the crowd.

Richard had let go of her. She moved onward, oblivious, seeing nothing. Was it true? Was she free? Was this horrible and confusing even finally over?

She stopped, turned, caught the strange, acrid smell of the L.A. night air and watched as Richard made his way out of the doorway behind her.

And was abruptly shot down by three familiar rounds, two to the chest and one to the head. He fell back against the doorjamb, slid down, slumped and lay still.

Callie turned around, her expression frozen into one of horror. Vincent was behind her at the open driver's door of the cab, looking up and down the alley, around every which way, and making his way toward her, gun out.

"Come on!" he said, then moved faster when he realized she wasn't moving. He grabbed her by the sleeve of her coat and yanked, and she nearly stumbled against him.

The despair was utter, crushing, and black.

He dragged her back jerkily toward the car, still looking around, compulsively watching everything, his attention scattered all over the chaos, but his grip firm on her. She couldn't get free – in his current state he would definitely shoot her before he even fully realized what she was doing.

She couldn't escape. He wouldn't let her go. And she didn't understand why.

Before she knew it, she was behind the wheel, staring numbly out the fractured glass of the windshield, looking down the alley at the cars that lined her way.

"Now drive!" Vincent ordered, then, louder, "_Drive_!"

She realized that the car was running. She pushed the gear into D and pressed the accelerator. She didn't realize that she'd sideswiped the other cars around her until it was much too late and they were already back out onto the open streets.

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The state of shock that had settled on her wasn't nearly as paralyzing as it would have been if the incident had occurred earlier in the evening. Vincent's violent behavior had deadened her to the reality of the situation, and instead of the sickening repulsion she felt at the fact that she had actually witnessed him drop a body, she found her key emotion was anger.

Not just anger, though, oh no. This was a seething kind of heat, making her mute with its force. Her jaw clenched, her teeth grinding together as she glared at the road, her hands so tight against the wheel that her fingers were losing circulation.

"Everything but the Polish Cavalry," Vincent quipped breathlessly. He was moving all over the back seat, his head craning every which way, looking out the back window, the side windows, occasionally glancing out the front. "We're lucky to be alive."

She moved only her eyes up toward the rearview mirror, and managed to catch his eye. Her rage was written on every line around her mouth.

"What, don't I get any thanks?" he snapped.

"Thanks for what?" she growled.

"They were arresting you," he said. "They think you're my accomplice. I saved you."

She drew in a hissing breath. "No, you didn't. That was my brother's partner you shot."

"Your brother?"

"My brother, the cop!" she snapped back, her tone matching his. "And his partner Richard, that you _murdered_!"

"Oh, so I should have stopped and asked him first what he was doing before I shot him?"

She opened her mouth to reply, found too many horrid things wanting to crawl out to assault him, and then snapped her mouth shut.

"I go through a lot of trouble for you, and all you can do is clam up," he muttered, his eyes going out the back window.

"Fuck you!" she hissed, remembering, briefly, those days when she was a pre-teen, and her mother was alive, and they would fight about things that girls fought with their mothers about, and she would walk away, wanting so badly to have the last word, and managing only those two words, too soft to be effectual, or to get her into worse trouble.

Vincent heard them. "Hey, at least I didn't shoot your brother," he pointed out.

"Oh, and I'm supposed to—" she cut herself off, her fist balling up and then slamming against the wheel. "What the hell is going on?"

"As in?"

"As in, why the hell are you murdering all these people?" She had ceased to make any sense of her emotions, and had reverted back to pure, simple knowledge. She had to know why she was suffering like this, what was the purpose of it all? "What the hell did any of them ever do to deserve _you_?"

"How the hell should I know?" Vincent returned, equally annoyed by not nearly matching her frustration. "They all have the same, witness-for-the-prosecution-look to me. Some major federal indictment for someone who majorly does _not_ want to get indicted."

Disgusted, she spat, "So that's the reason."

"No, that's the why. There is no reason. There's no good reason, there's no bad reason to live or to die."

She looked up into the rearview again, her face losing the mask of rage and shock. Suddenly, everything came into incredibly sharp focus, as if she had just adjusted her lens through which she saw her life.

"What…what is with you?" she whispered.

He looked at her, and she swore she caught the mild flicker of alarm in those ice-green orbs. "As in?" he repeated.

She turned away, struggling with herself. "You…you murder people. For a living. Someone pays you and you kill whoever they want you to kill. How much is the going rate for a human life today? I'm really curious."

"Depends on the life," he said.

"What, how hard they are to get to? How difficult the target is to reach?"

"Something like that." His voice was unsure, most likely thrown by her sarcasm. She hadn't been too sarcastic with him. In fact, until that moment, she'd been pretty meek.

That moment was over.

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A/N Pt. 1: Thanks to my loyal reviewers, who all risked their lives (and libidos) in the taxi ride through the airport with Vincent. Now if all of you would be so kind as to return his clothes, so he can get out…

A/N Pt. 2: Just to give all of you a head's up, I'm probably going to be ending this story after the next two chapters...but never fear, because over the last few days a serious sequal has been sneaking around my head, and I finally found the major plotline to carry it through! So there will be a sequel, which I will start posting as soon as I can. (Which should reassure some of you out there about Vincent's fate, especially after what I did at the end of Purity...heh heh...)

A/N Pt. 3: Hope everybody has a happy, blessed and joyous Easter!


	9. Why Haven't You Killed Me?

Disclaimer: Vincent is a man with a gun. You think I'm going to try and steal him?

A/N: Okay, people, this is winding down...yes, I have a sequel in mind but in the meanwhile, there's a good fanfic you should be reading out there by **Winged Seraph **called "Effigy." She polished it up and it's all sparkly and neat and waiting for your reviews, so I use my "Vincent's intense stare power" to command you to go read it. And leave a review.

Special thanks to **Dawnie-7 **for returning Vincent's shirt. Although he did look pretty good without it. He he. Thanks to my loyal reviewers, I hope to hear from you at least a couple more times before this strand must end...and a new one begin!

_**Chapter Nine: Why Haven't You Killed Me? **_

Vincent watched her, suddenly unsure. It was the first time in the evening that he hadn't been sure about her. It was an unsteady feeling, one he didn't care for at all.

Gently, he leaned forward, toward the rise of the front seat that divided them. The plastic barrier was wide open in the middle, more than enough room for him to reach through. He slid his opposing hand over and touched her hair.

She stiffened. Not so unusual, being female she had a natural inclination to distrust any man who tried to touch her. But their earlier intimacy hadn't been forgotten, at least not by him, and she was in no position to push him away.

"Head downtown," he said softly, close to the back of her head.

"What's downtown?" He almost smirked, but she could see him in the mirror. A smirk would ruin the moment. The tremor of her voice told him plainly that the physical contact was working. Just like it had always worked.

"Don't worry about it. Just drive." He kept his tone mellow, soothing, and he moved his hand deeper into the thick mass of her hair. God, it was so soft. He'd forgotten how good a woman's hair could feel against his scarred fingers. The tips of his fingers just touched the nape of her neck.

She bridled. Her shoulders rose almost imperceptibly, putting the smallest barrier between them. Then, as if the effort to speak were tremendous, she said, "Don't touch me."

The corner of his mouth quirked into a nearly teasing smile. "Look, you've had a rough night, I know. I've put you through hell, but you've come through, you know?"

A little louder. "Don't _touch_ me."

"You need to relax. It's almost over."

Her eyes darted up into the mirror to meet his. He was amazed at the depths of rage he saw there. "Yeah, I'm sure it is," she snapped.

Shaking his head, he leaned closer to her. "Come on, Callie, get with it. Millions of galaxies, hundreds of millions of stars, and a speck on one _in a blink_…that's us, lost in space. You, me…what do either of us really matter? Why not just enjoy the moment we have? Because it's _all_ we have, trust me."

"All I have? So when this ride is over, so am I, right?" Blazing now, he'd forgotten what color her eyes were, but now they were nearly black in the shadows, two glittering onyx staring fire at him.

"What makes you say that?"

She sighed, as if impatient with him. "Come on, Vincent, I'm not stupid. You've killed everyone else you've met tonight. After number five comes number six. That's me, right?"

He swallowed. No, this was coming apart. He was tempted to tell her that of course that wasn't true, he wouldn't hurt her…but the fact that it wasn't a lie was what stopped him. Startled at himself, he pulled back his hand.

She had pinned him now, with those eyes. "You know, I probably deserve it, you know? Being so incredibly _stupid_. I mean, right now, I feel like the most stupid person on the planet."

"Why?"

"What I said to you before was all true. All of it. You've been playing me from minute one. The charming smile, the seductive attitude. All of it was pure manipulation. Because you don't feel anything. You don't care one speck about any human being on this planet." She narrowed her eyes, her teeth showing with the venom of the last words. "Not even _yourself_."

He backed away, deflating slightly against the back seat. His eyes slid away from her, unable to take that gaze any longer. _What's wrong with you? Snap out_ _of it!_

She drew a breath, then let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "God, how could I? I mean, I go to school, I study this, and yet a live field experience lands in my lap and I fall in like some dumb cheerleader who doesn't know her boobs from her ass. You're so typical, and boring, do you know that? I mean, daytime T.V. creates more imaginative hit-men than you. But you, you're just a machine, pressing buttons on other machines. Pressing my buttons, and idiot that I am, I let you. But you don't feel anything, do you? You probably don't even know what the word means. Sure, you can read people, figure them out, but their hearts are just empty spaces on your radar, because you don't have one. No human being could murder another human being if they had a single clue as to what they really were."

She stopped, stunned by the silence in the back of her cab. She looked at him again, saw him listening, saw his numb look. In sadistic – and perhaps masochistic – enthusiasm, she plodded on.

"So let me guess…Daddy beat you up, Momma ran out on you, you were isolated and alone, wound up in some juvie hall somewhere, where you learned the law of the jungle, eat or be eaten? Keep the bad things away by never letting anything in? Destroy anything you touch before it touches you? How long was it before you realized you were a walking corpse? Anybody home?"

She snorted, looked away. "You think you're this bad-ass sociopath and it's all just a façade. Just like your expensive suit and silver-fox hair. It's almost enough to make me feel sorry for you, you low….just…low." Stumbling on her words, feeling something catch in her throat, she looked out the window. "I don't know why the hell you haven't killed me yet. But don't think for a second that I don't know that's how all of this is going to end. So don't, for one second, try to play it sweet on me. At least give me the dignity of knowing better than to fall for that transparent shit."

Silence. Slowly, so slowly, Vincent pulled his head straight onto his shoulders, not realizing that it had been unsteady until that moment. "Next time I come to L.A.," he quipped, "I'm going to have to remember never to get into the cab of a little college girl who thinks she's already a shrink."

"Fuck you," she snapped.

"Fuck me?" He arched an eyebrow, feeling the anger starting to boil, sliding up his throat like bile. "Yeah, that is what you wanted to do, isn't it? I mean, why else would you have let yourself be used like that? Isn't that the classic, bad-boy complex your daddy was talking about?"

"Leave him out of this," she hissed.

"Why not? He's the reason you have it. No man in this world will ever be as good or noble as your father, or even your brother, so why try? Instead, play the other side of the street, that way you know how everything is going to end. Well, don't get pissed at me if that little complex of yours gets you into trouble, it you hadn't been such a coward to find yourself someone who was good enough for you. If they even exist."

She blinked. Hell, why had that barb stuck so hard? It was pure defense, pure table-turning and she was falling for it, like the idiot she felt like at that moment.

"One day, you'll be thanking me, Callie," Vincent went on, finding his tone of disdain and scorn that made her nearly want to cry. "You'll remember me as the one man who didn't let you walk away without giving you what you asked for."

"I never _asked_ for you!" she shrieked, hitting the accelerator. Vincent's head snapped back as the sudden G's came upon him, and she swerved the car to make a heavy, ugly right turn.

"Fucking savior complex, Stockholm syndrome, whatever the hell…I could have risked it any time I wanted to…"

She was rambling now, almost laughing, as the near-deserted late-night streets of L.A. became her own personal racing track.

"Red light!" Vincent said, attempting to keep his cool, but she heard the panic, reveled in it as she sped right through, the accelerator now going north of sixty.

"But new news!" she mocked, looking up at him, taking her eyes off the road in a moment of reckless glee. "This moment is all we have, right? _May as well make the best of it_!"

The tires screamed against the pavement as she made another turn, nearly lifting half the car off the road. It slammed back down, jolting them both, and to Vincent's utter amazement, she started to laugh.

Not just laugh. _Giggle hysterically_, that was more like it.

"What the hell do I have to _lose_, anyway?" she roared as the engine screamed around them.

Vincent reached for his gun, pulled it out, pointed it at her temple. "Slow down!" he ordered.

She looked at him, and it was plain to see that she didn't buy it for a second. "What, you going to pull the trigger and kill us? Go ahead, I dare you, Mr. I _Don't Have A Fucking Clue What Anyone Else Is Thinking_! Go ahead and call my bluff!"

Another sharp turn. Vincent almost lost hold of his pistol. "I said, _slow the hell down_!" he said again, a bit more loudly.

"Lost in space…trust me, I'm not lost anywhere, not in this city. But you can go ahead and fly away any time, be my guest, if you think you can hide your ass from the entire L.A.P.D!"

The road had straightened out ahead of them. There were cars lined on each side, the road a bit narrower than the others. She had turned off onto a side street, the debris making her speed that much more dangerous. "SLOW DOWN!" Vincent barked, the fear now showing on his face. Callie smiled in smug triumph.

"You were right, Vincent," she said, her eyes landing on a large truck, abandoned where it had broken down in an empty lot, "my brother _is_ my hero. He's coming to save me. Who's going to save you?"

Then she spun the wheel. The front of the car barely missed the truck, but the side glanced off, bouncing as if the metal had been turned into rubber. The car whirled around in a full 360 degree angle, going across the street to slap hard into other cars parked there. Finally, the right front fender slammed hard into a large dumpster, killing the taxi's engine and bringing them both to an abrupt stop.

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Callie opened her eyes. She was looking right into a street light, flickering on and off, and the glare hurt. She reached up with a hand to ward it off, only to find someone else had beaten her to it.

"So you're alive," came Vincent's voice. "I was wondering there for a second."

His powerful grasp snaked around her forearm and yanked her upwards. Her door had come off in the crash and part of the roof of the cab had been pulled away, so it was like lifting a sardine out of a freshly peeled can. She found herself unsteady on her feet in the middle of the street.

Head spinning and stomach churning, she struggled to keep from barfing then and there on his shoes. But sure enough, Vincent was right there, in front of her, looking at her with an equal mixture of utter annoyance and reluctant respect. There were cuts on his face, skin scraped off his knuckles, and no doubt his suit was ripped in various places, but he was alive and relatively unhurt.

She blinked, letting her vision clear. It felt so quiet and strange around them, deserted. Vincent was looking around, nearly laughing. "What did I tell you?" he was saying. "Nobody notices anything in this town."

She looked around her, at the distant lights of moving cars, straining her ears for the sound of a police siren. Surely someone had seen their wreck. Someone had to have called the cops. Where was Ray? Hadn't he caught up to them by then?

Vincent grabbed her wrist, yanking her along with him. "Come on, Speed-racer, let's go, the night isn't over yet."

Mercilessly, he dragged her through the streets, finding ways through alleys, going through places she would never had set foot inside on her own, but he trodded fearlessly. Her head felt fuzzy and her mouth had a strange taste in it – it took two fingers and her tongue for her to realize that she had bitten something pretty badly and it was blood that she tasted. Her lip, and something else, something on the inside of her cheek.

"Let…let me go," she murmured weakly, his momentum causing her steps to become stumbled and uneven.

"No way," he said. "You fucked this up, now you're going to fix it."

"Fucked what up?" she moaned. "How in the hell can I fix anything? My cab is wrecked. You don't need me anymore, just shoot me or let me go!"

He stopped, letting go of her. She almost fell to the ground, her legs nearly giving out under her, but she didn't. She stood there, swaying in the night breeze like a scarecrow, all arms and legs. When she was able to raise her head, she realized she was staring down the barrel of his gun.

"You _want_ to die?" he asked her.

She just looked back at him. The trauma, the shock, the adrenaline, the apathy, all came crashing at once. She was going to faint, that's what was going to happen, she was going to…

_There_. Sirens. Vincent's eyes jerked up and his gun withdrew just the slightest. Then, holstering it, he lunged for her and tossed her over his shoulder, then took off at a dead run down the next alley. The movement made the world swim and her hair blocked her vision of everything save Vincent's legs. How in the hell he was able to carry her and run so fast, she didn't have the foggiest, but it didn't seem to matter, as it was happening, it was real. How long he went, she didn't know, but the world browned in and out several times before he stopped and set her on her feet, his hands firm on her shoulders before he propped her up against a wall.

She slid down, nearly on her backside. She started to cough, the saliva in her throat slipping down the wrong pipe and choking her. Vincent had knelt down and was rummaging through something. She realized as her cough cleared that it was his briefcase.

"Justice building," he said, more to himself than to her. "Just a few blocks that way. Get on your feet." He snapped the briefcase shut and seized her hand, and she was forced to run alongside him for two blocks before they came to a large building

A building she recognized from earlier that night. The building where she had picked him up.

Vincent reached to his waist for something, and she realized he had a very large tangle of keys and cards hanging there. One card went through a security strip and the door popped open, but the guard sitting at the stand inside didn't seem to happy to see a man coming in, dragging a half-struggling girl behind him.

Vincent shot him without blinking. Callie screamed, jerked, her adrenaline returning.

"Move!" Vincent snarked at her, giving her a particularly brutal yank. He dragged them both through another security-cleared turnstile and then headed for the elevator. There, she was allowed to slink into the corner and catch her breath.

"What…what are you…going to do with me?" she managed to direct at his back as he watched the numbers light up for the floors.

"Shut up," he snapped. The elevator came to a stop, and Vincent turned to her, grasping her by the hair on the back of her neck. She squealed in surprise and then pain, but had no choice but to move her feet as he propelled her now in front of him, into the hallway, toward an office door.

Behind her, his foot snaked out and kicked down the door, the gun pointed into the room

Which was empty.

Callie's eyes settled on the plaque just outside the door. Two names appeared, but it was the title that caught her eye.

_District prosecutors_.

Vincent shoved her into the room, tossing her down into a chair. He took something from his briefcase and dropped it onto the floor, temporarily abandoned.

"Get on the floor," he ordered.

She looked up at him, still confused, and realized that her hesitation had come at the worst possible moment. Brutally, Vincent seized hold of her by the collar of her jacket and yanked her across the room, then kicked her feet out from under her, causing her to land in a heap at the foot of the desk, right by one of the legs. The back of her head jerked with the movement and smacked into the hard wooden edge, and the pain made her vision temporarily swim. Taking advantage of her swoon, Vincent grabbed both her wrists and she felt something thick and plastic loop around them, then pull painfully tight.

He left her there to investigate the vacated desks, one of them having been recently occupied, if the smell of Chinese food coming from the white plastic boxes was to be believed. Callie was amazed to realize that the smell actually made her hungry.

She could hear him kick at the chair and it slid across the floor, banging into the window. Then there was silence. Whatever he was doing, it couldn't be good. Callie felt the flesh on her arms begin to crawl, her muscles ache with the strain of being pulled so tightly behind her. He stepped quietly, back and forth, his stare on the desk. She couldn't see him, but she could picture it, and it frightened her how clear the picture was.

Then, abruptly, he came around the desk, heading toward the door.

"Where are you going!" she shrieked, not sure if she was more freaked out at him leaving, or her being left behind.

"Upstairs," was all he said, and then he was gone.

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Annie Farrell sat in the law library. She liked working here, it gave her access to anything she needed.

It was a routine, that's what it was. It was the night before a big case, and this was her way of dealing with it. Sure, she loved her job, but it wasn't the easiest job. She represented the department of Justice. The fear that she was just running a charade all these years pressed upon her each time a new case started. The terror that her exhibits weren't in order and her opening statement was going to fall flat at the most important point was enough to induce her to a bout of tears, but those had passed about four hours ago. Now she was in her zone, reworking her exhibits, rewriting her opening statement, and she would stay at it until sleep finally demanded she doze for about an hour, and then the day would start, the trail would begin, and she'd be fine.

The telephone was ringing.

She didn't hear it at first. Her brain was so wrapped up in her statement that she was murmuring around loud to herself – which was fine, considering she was very much alone – and not even tuned in to outside noise. The building made enough noise to get attention to anyone who wasn't familiar with it – that was the way of these L.A. skyscrapers, the way they settled during the night, it was enough to convince a skittish person that the place was haunted. It didn't bother her. She liked the noise. She liked the feeling.

The phone was just ringing and ringing and _ringing_.

She looked down at it, slowly coming out of her work haze, and frowned. Who in the hell could be calling? More than likely it was a wrong number. She decided to let it pass.

Then the thought of Max floated past her. He'd run through her head each time she'd come up for air, and now was not an exception. No, there was no way he was calling her, not at this strange hour.

Dammit, the phone would _not_ stop _ringing_. Finally, she picked it up. "U.S. Attorney's Office," she said, her professional voice sounding strange to her own ears at this extremely late hour.

"Annie Farrell?" came an unfamiliar voice.

"Yes?" she scowled.

"This is Detective Ray Fanning, L.A.P.D. narcotics. I'm here with Agent Pedrosa of the F.B.I. He instructed me to call you and inform you that you're in danger."

She scowled. Pedrosa was her Fed, the guy who was bringing her everything for the case. Some days she wasn't sure if he worked for her, or if she worked for him. But in spite of his pompous-ass attitude, the guy was good at what he did. "What? What are you talking about? Is this a joke?"

"No, ma'am," came Fanning's voice, dead calm and serious. He had the sort of confidence that took the edge off the fear that would have started creeping up her throat, but Annie wasn't the sort of woman who scared easily. The two times someone had attempted to mug her, she'd sent stiletto heels through their feet and neither one had walked again without thinking of her. "I'm going to be straight with you, ma'am. There have been four executions tonight of the witnesses against Felix Reyes Torrena. A hit man that Felix hired may possibly be coming your way."

"My witnesses? What's going on? What do you know about my case?"

"Enough to know that you're in danger. We have a squad headed your way, so don't—"

Just then the entire building went black.

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Callie felt the throbbing in the back of her head where it had smacked into the desk. She wished she could rub it, not that it would actually do any physical good, but psychologically it might make the pain recess a bit.

Instinctively, she started to tug at the plastic strips that bound her. The kind of plastic strips used to bind packages in post offices, she was sure. The stuff had some give…if she could just get it to stretch far enough to slip her hands through

A few minutes of that and the numbness in her fingers where the circulation was starting to get cut off was enough to clear that delusion. No, the only way she could get out of this was if she could somehow lift up the desk…

That was stupid. This thing was made of a combination of oak and steel, and when she tried to stand herself up, the weight was tremendous. She cursed herself for not being more faithful to a work-out program, like Ray had always suggested. _You want to be in a cop's line of work, you gotta be fit. No time like the present, Opie._

_Opie_. He would call her Opie when he was teasing her. She hadn't though of that in a while. Like that kid on Andy Griffith, who grew up to become Ron Howard, director extraordinaire. Maybe someday, he would make a movie about this night…

If she lived to tell about it.

Vincent should have shot her by now, of that she was dead certain. Maybe he hadn't done it on the street so as to not leave a body in the open. He'd been particularly conscious about that, she reminded herself, thinking back to the two kids he'd shot in the alley. But now that they were inside, she should be dead.

But instead, he'd tied her up.

Bloody hell if she was just going to sit here and wait for him to come back. Getting her feet under her in a heavy squat, she started to pull upward.

This wasn't going to work. She could get the desk off the ground, but she couldn't get her hands out from under the chair leg. Somehow, she had to prop up the desk and slide her hands out at the same time, but that was impossible

Unless she was able to topple the desk.

Taking several deep breaths, using the last bits of strength she had, she lifted. She strained and pushed and yanked, knowing she just had to get the desk to tip so far and then gravity would take care of the rest.

No, this wasn't working, the desk was at an angle and she couldn't get enough weight behind her. Unless she threw herself against the desk. Maybe that would work—

Her wrists were going to be bruised and purple for a week, of that she was certain, when she felt the first ugly yank of her first failure. Steeling herself, blocking out the pain and amazed at her ability to do so, she tried again, this time turning herself so that the desk moved up, both front legs at once, long ways back, and then lifted up her foot to push against the bottom, which she was just able to reach.

There was a thud and a jerk as she toppled, her back landing against the smooth wood and her feet in the air over her head.

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Annie looked around the office, wondering what in the hell could be going on. The phone was dead, and this was just all too creepy. She didn't know whether to shove aside her disbelief or to embrace it in the hopes that all of this was just going to be a dream.

But no, she was awake, her heart was pounding, and the lights from outside gave everything a muted, green glow. Her eyes adjusted slowly, and focused on the largest source of light there was, the large glass wall through which the emergency lights glowed

And a silhouette of a figure appeared, hands together in front of him, holding something that her imagination told her had to be a gun.

She ducked down behind the desk, and watched.

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Bloody hell, she'd done it! Sliding forward, Callie's hands slipped easily around the loose desk leg. Now all she had to do was untie herself.

There was another desk in the room. She made her way to it, searching with her eyes. If Vincent heard her, would he come back? She didn't know, which meant she also had no time. Frantic for anything with a sharp edge, she found a tape dispenser with a bright metal cutter. Turning, she pressed the plastic strip down against it, feeling the bite of the metal teeth against the soft part of her thumb, ignoring it as she rubbed, her hands going slick with blood but eventually the plastic giving way and freeing her hands.

Then the lights flickered. All the electricity around her disappeared, leaving her in a black nothing.

_Ok, smart ass, now that you're free, what the hell are you going to do next?_

Struggling to hasted the adjustment of her eyes to the dim light, Callie raised her hands in front of her, groping her way to the door. When she found it, she realized that not all the power was out. Dim emergency lights hung in the hallway, and the elevators had to be on a back-up system, because their buttons glowed as if nothing had happened. She pressed the up button, remembering Vincent's last word.

_Upstairs._

Where the hell upstairs? There had to be at least a dozen more floors to this building. She had absolutely no clue. But as she stood blinking in the sudden light of the interior of the elevator, she thought to herself, _Come on, girl, you're a writer…if you were a prosecutor working in your office this late at night, and you weren't at your desk, where would you be?_

She looked down at the buttons. There was a smudge of blood on one of them, the 16. Beside it, carved into the panel, were the words: law library and files.

She pressed the button. The doors slid shut and up she went.


	10. Think Anybody Will Notice?

Disclaimer: Don't own, so don't sue. 

All right everybody, this is the last chapter of this story…but the sequel is in the works, and it just won't stop swirling around my head, so it might be a week or so before I get the first chapter up. If I can do it sooner, I will, but I'm not making any promises. And it will be rated M, as the new rating system goes, because things are going to get a bit...interesting. heh heh. So be sure to show your ID at the door.

Special thanks to all my reviews, especially **Dawnie-7, Hockey Gurl**, and of course, **Winged Seraph **– her story over there is getting really good, guys, you need to go read and review! Plus all the other people who have dropped in their two cents from time to time, you are always welcome and I hope to hear from you all again come the sequel!

_**Chapter Ten: Think Anybody Will Notice**_? 

The silence and the darkness were comforting.Vincent listened to the sounds around him, acclimating, probing, sensing. He felt invisible here, and it was a pleasant feeling. This was all there was, the hunt, the kill. This was all his life was good for, all he was good for.

He heard the sound. The faint scratching of stockings against carpet. He propelled himself toward the sound.

The woman had long, black hair that hung across her back like a curtain. She didn't hear him at first, but pure tension forced her to turn her head and look behind her. She let out a small, breathy gasp and turned around, pushing herself as far away from him as she could as the barrel of Vincent's gun came level with her head.

She was against the wall, looking afraid, as they all looked afraid, and then she shut her eyes and turned away, unwilling to see it coming. She was brave, he had to give her that. Other women would have been shrieking and crying hysterically by now

There was a noise. Vincent looked up, startled. Someone was charging through the darkness, toward him. He caught the outline of a figure, saw something bright and metal rise into the air—

And barely shifted his hands in time to catch the heavy metal chair that had been flung at him. One of the legs got past his barricade and caught him smartly in the ear, sending a flare of pain through his head. It was just enough to make him lose his balance, and he landed on the ground with a thud.

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Callie watched Vincent topple, and looked down at where his gun had been pointed. A woman huddled there, Callie couldn't make out anything in the dark, she just reached out and seized a hand, yanking the girl to her feet and dragging her with him.

"Callie!" came Vincent's enraged scream as he rose up from the ground.

"Run!" Callie shrieked at the woman as they both headed for the door to the hallway. There was the sound of thunder and explosions, glass shattering so loud it was more terrifying than the rage that came behind it.

The elevator door was still open, doubtless because the building was very empty and its programming gave it little else to do. Callie nearly hurled the woman into it in front of her as she caught the door and spun herself around, her thumb locking down onto the "close doors" button.

The darkness outside disappeared behind a wall of bright silver steel.

In the elevator, Callie turned and looked at the woman in the corner, still stunned out of her mind. But she was a quick study, this one, and managed to gather her wits enough to ask a very good question.

"What the hell is going on?"

"My name's Calliope Fanning," Callie said. "Call me Callie. I take it you're Annie?"

"You know who I am?"

"I saw it on your office door."

"My office?" Annie repeated, this time in anger, as if feeling violated.

"Long, long story," Callie panted. "We have to get as far away from here as we can, and I'll explain everything…but not now."

"Wait a minute…Fanning? Do you know a Detective Fanning?"

Callie stopped, her breathing suspended for a moment. "My brother?"

"He called, warned me something was going to happen…he said a squad was on the way but he got cut off—"

Callie shook her head. "I don't think he's going to make it in time." She looked down at Annie's feet. "Lose the heels. You can't run in those."

Without hesitation, Annie flipped them off.

She looked at the other woman again, scowling. She knew her from somewhere…earlier that night…"Max," she said aloud as the bell sounded, signaling that their floor was near.

Annie frowned. "What about Max—you know him?"

"You were the woman from the cab, earlier…when I picked up Vincent…the man who's chasing us." Callie shook her head, knowing she wasn't making any sense to the lawyer, but knew she didn't have time. "That's when I met Vincent, when he got into my cab, when all this mess started."

The elevator doors opened and they charged out.

Callie reached out and caught Annie's arm, her eyes catching a sign far to the right. Annie spun on her, frustration in her face. "This is the street!" she said, as if it should be obvious.

"This way," Callie said, her eyes finally focusing on the metro sign. Vincent would be down any second, no doubt he was charging the stairs four at a time. He would expect them to take to the street, but at this hour of the night, with everything deserted and empty, they would be easy prey.

The metro, however, meant people. And it meant options. Yanking on Annie's arm again, she directed her toward the escalator, where they hustled down as fast as they could without falling.

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Vincent was so angry, too angry. He shouldn't be this angry. It was bad to be this angry. It made him sloppy, careless. He was going to make a mistake.

He put the energy into his feet. He hardly felt he impact as he slammed them again and again against the hard tile of the landings in between the flights of stairs. Before he knew it, he was back in the main hall.

He turned to the left, where the front doors awaited. But no, something stopped him.

The street was too quiet. Nobody had been through those doors. He turned around, looked the other way –

And saw the metro sign.

Without hesitation, he pursued.

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Annie had shifted in her grip and was now gripping her back, their arms linked as if they were long lost sisters who had just found each other. As Callie slowed, Annie slowed with her, the connection between them immediate and intimate.

"Which way?" Annie asked.

Callie looked down. "Escalator," she said, dragging the woman behind her down another flight. When they reached the bottom, just then, there was a flashing of light and the distant sound of brakes.

"Stop!" Callie barked, and they froze. Turning, Callie watched the escalator they had just left, making sure to stay just far back enough so that whoever was at the top couldn't see them.

Nothing. Had Vincent followed them, or had he been successfully tricked?

_Fat chance_. She turned around, saw the next escalator going up. Vincent was going to think that they would hop on the next train, and any second he was going to appear on those stairs. But what if they went back upstairs again? There was another track, going perpendicular, cutting the station effectively in half. He couldn't follow, not without coming down here first, and by then, it would be too late for him to catch them if by some strange luck there _was_ another train up above.

These thoughts were neither logical nor random in her head, they simply existed, and she acted on them. She started up the escalator, taking the steps two a time, Annie barely keeping up with her.

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Vincent stopped in time to see the second train roll in.

He looked down. The other train's doors had slid open, and waited for passengers to enter.

_Where were they? Which train?_

He looked up, he looked down, he felt himself begin to move, stopped himself with a mild stumble, and then moved again.

He ran forward. There was a track separating him from that train, no entrance on from this way. The train was starting to move.

He jumped. He landed on the median. The train was just starting to pick up speed. He jumped again, reaching, every muscle in his left arm straining with the effort.

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They crawled on the filthy floor, but Callie paid no notice, and Annie made not a sound. They hunkered down, out of sight of the windows, and waited.

The doors hissed shut. The train started to move. Slowly, so slowly, Callie pulled herself up, found that her palms were slick with sweat and slid against the cold metal bars. She had to sit down in one of the cheaply lined blue and plastic chairs to keep from falling back to the floor.

Annie was panting. She had run her stockings, which was a good thing, as nylon got nearly no traction on the slick tile flooring. Still, it was better than running in those blasted heels. The woman was in shape, Callie had to hand it to her. The only thing keeping herself going was the adrenaline. She was so full of it now, she doubted she would feel it if the train suddenly decided to flip over and landed on them all.

There was a pounding sound coming from somewhere distant to their left. Callie leaned forward, not sure if it was just a loud sound, or if her hearing was so intensified by the situation, she had temporarily become Superman – or Supergirl, as the case may be.

A flicker of movement. Callie didn't hesitate. "SHIT!" she rasped, grabbing at Annie again. The other woman was on her feet in a blink, this being her first adrenaline rush of the evening. She was all panic and running, and Callie let her get in front of her, not sure if it was some kind of protective instinct or if it was the anger that Vincent was chasing them.

_Vincent was chasing them_. God knew what he was going to do. She almost wanted to find out. He'd had a dozen chances to kill her, had even shot at her before, but now, this was serious, and she had a bizarre desire to push her death into his face, to make him take some kind of action and just stop leaving her hanging all the damn time…

"There's a station!" Annie said, and they swung into the gap by the doors, hiding behind the metal barricades, and waited.

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Vincent crashed through the doors, one after the next. He caught the flash of dark hair ahead of him and increased his pace, but the girls were fast, he had to give them credit. Then he felt the train start to slow.

They were going to try and get off. He moved toward the closest door and waited.

The train stopped, and the doors popped open. Vincent moved sideways, into the station, and pointed his gun forward.

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Callie leaned out, caught a flash of gray, and pulled back in. Annie was standing there, watching her, unnerved by her unwillingness to get off the train.

"He's out there," Callie hissed at her.

Annie mouthed a curse, looked around, desperate for something, anything –

Callie found herself wondering what would happen if she ran out there. If she ran right into Vincent's path. Would he just fire? Or would he hesitate long enough for her to make a break for it down the stairs? Would he chase her or would he just get right back on the train? No, Callie couldn't risk it, she couldn't leave Annie alone.

She felt the urge to laugh, bitterly. "You know," she said, just as the bell sounded and the doors began to close, "Vincent almost got into Max's cab."

Annie looked at her, even more discomfited, if that were possible. "What?"

"He walked away. Probably because Max was in dreamland over you. He came over to my cab, I took him, I shouldn't have…tell Max how close he came to being right here, when you see him."

"When I see him?" Annie echoed. "What are you—"

"Callie!" came the scream. Both women jumped.

"Run," Callie said, "when I move into the aisle. Head for the driver, tell him to call the police."

Annie shook her head. "I can't leave you! He'll kill you!"

Callie stepped out, not hearing her. She stood in the middle of the car, and motioned behind her for Annie to run.

Vincent threw open the last door and stood there, gun on her, enraged, bleeding from the nick the chair leg had made in his ear. The blood stained his dark suit, accenting the tears from the earlier accident.

"I do this for a living, Callie," he said, a bit softer, but not much. The car was empty around them.

"You want her, you go through me," Callie said.

Vincent almost smiled. "What, that's supposed to be a threat?" He turned his gun and fired. The bullet screamed past her, hit the plastic behind her, shattered it with an explosion. Annie shrieked behind her, pushing hard at the door that separated her from the driver's cab, her panic making it a more difficult task than it should have been.

Vincent stepped forward. He lowered his gun just a little, and Callie lunged at him, catching the gun with both hands. She struggled for it, trying to keep the barrel away from her and away from Annie, but Vincent was far stronger than her. He looked down into her face and he smiled.

"You know, I gave you credit for being smarter than this," he said. The next thing she knew, something hard had caught her right against the side of her face, right behind her eye, and her face felt like it was exploding. She landed on the floor of the car, winded, staring at the ceiling.

Then she heard it. She heard the three shots, heard the muffled cry of death.

Callie screamed. She didn't know why she screamed, not until a long time later. The moment suspended itself, as her scream seemed to come back onto her, drawing back into her lungs, choking her into sobs.

How long she really lay there, she didn't know. She felt utterly alone, abandoned, forsaken. She looked up at the blank, white ceiling, her mind reeling, everything crashing on her at once.

And then Vincent appeared. He looked down into her face, then bent over her.

"Get up," he said.

She just stared at him, hating him. He bent closer.

"Come on, Callie. It's almost over."

Was that…tenderness she heard? No, that was too twisted. She looked away from him, then felt his hand against her cheek, felt him pull her closer to him again.

"I'm sorry I hit you," he said, his fingers stroking the slowly-forming bruise behind her eye.

She scowled, incredulous. "You're…you're _sorry_?" She pulled herself up, hiccupping on her tears, hardly able to breathe with the force of her sobs, which still pounded out of her, involuntarily now.

He shook his head, looking into her eyes, really looking now, as if what had happened hadn't just happened. "You should have stayed tied up, Callie. It was for your own good. Now you had to go dragging us all the way out here." Vincent looked over his shoulder, at what, she didn't want to think. The thought of Annie…_oh, God, Annie…_

Callie curled away from him, sobbing harder now, burying her face in her arms on the dirty, ugly floor of the metro car. She felt movement on her arm, it felt wrong, it felt like her skin had stopped feeling at all. Someone was rubbing her there but she couldn't feel it.

"You're getting awfully bent out of shape over someone you knew for five minutes," Vincent said, still sitting beside her, now leaning over her, sheltering her with his body. He laughed, a short, dark sound. "Think anybody will even notice her before the sun comes up?"

Callie sobbed harder, and tried to crawl away from him. Anything, just any distance at all, an inch, a centimeter, a _millimeter_, it would help. He grasped her shoulder, pulling her arm away, giving him a view of her face.

"Callie, look at me," he pleaded, his voice still laced with that hard, angry edge.

She shook her head, refused. "No," she groaned, then threw her other arm over her face, and twisted away. "God, let it just be over…just get it over, Vincent. Just shoot me and end it, for God's sake!"

If she'd been more together, she would have noticed Vincent's startled expression, the pullaway, the way his eyebrows came together. "Get up, Callie," he said, straining to keep his voice gentle.

"Why?" she cried, dissolving into sobs and whines again. "Why get up? Just leave me here, with her…just…just do it, Vincent. Don't play with me anymore, please, for the love of…God…anything…just please, I'm begging you, _stop_."

Her last words finished in nearly a whisper. There was silence for a moment, and then, abruptly, Vincent pulled her to her feet. "We're almost at the next stop," he said, pulling her into his arms. He looped one firmly around her and grasped a bar above him with the other, steadying them both. He pressed her against his chest, and she had no choice but to muffle her sobs against his shirt, as she was unable to get any other breathing room. Once she stopped pushing against him, he gave her a little more space, but didn't let go.

Finally, she raised her eyes to his, knowing there wasn't any other way. He looked down at her, and gave her the smallest of smiles. He let go of the bar, and she realized that the train had stopped. He grasped her hand.

"Come on," he said. "It's time to go."

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The blue line connected into the green line, which lead right to the airport. At the very next stop Vincent pulled her off, and she followed, pushed past her point of endurance, now just a dead weight hanging off the end of his hand.

How they wound up getting back on another train to another station and a connection, she would never remember. She would never remember those moments, except in fragments and dreams. When they arrived at the airport, the sky was light, the sun hadn't made its first appearance but the morning had the fresh scent that only California could create. The winds swayed the tall palm trees from the south, making them bend and dance.

The cold entrance to the airport was like entering a prison. Vincent had her firmly in tow, and she no longer had a single clue as to what to expect. What she was still doing with him, it made absolutely no sense, he should have killed her by now, he should have killed her when he killed Annie, hell, _before_ he'd even gone to _find_ Annie.

With no luggage to check and an e-ticket, all Vincent had to do was stop at a check-in terminal, punch the right buttons, and he was cleared to go. Looking around him carefully, his eyes going up and down Callie once to make sure she didn't look suspiciously haggard, he made their way to a seating alcove, right in front of the security check in.

Vincent looked down at his watch. "Five-forty," he said with a nearly jovial smile. "The plane has already landed, they're boarding on time." He turned his smile to her, his grip on her hand gentling. "So now we say goodbye."

She lifted her eyes to meet his. Red-rimmed and nearly swollen, they took him in with the kind of amazement that a torture victim might feel to suddenly discover themselves liberated. "You're…you're letting me go?" she whispered.

He stepped closer, his face close to hers. "I should never have gotten into your cab, Callie," he sighed. His breath felt warm against her cold cheek. He let go of her hand, and took her chin in his fingers. Then, he lifted both hands, letting his fingers slide into her hair, pulling her close in a lover's embrace. As their faces neared, Callie was sure it was just a show, a final act, to put the last touches on a splendid performance before he vanished for the curtain call.

Softly, his lips closed over hers. She didn't respond, didn't even move, and he sensed it. He pulled away, puzzlement in his face, and then, something she didn't think could possibly emerge from those cold green depths.

Remorse.

He held her eyes, waiting, counting the minutes. It seemed that he could have stared at her forever, expectant, waiting. What he wanted from her, she didn't know. Her eyes narrowed a bit, her rage starting to flicker again.

To her surprise, the corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. "There she is," he murmured. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to." He shuffled in his pockets, then brought something out in his fist. He took her hand in his free one, then enclosed it in both of his, and she felt the rough caress of the bills in her palm. "I owed you three hundred more, plus an extra hundred, think of it as hazard pay."

She raised an eyebrow. Her fingers had closed around the money only because Vincent had made them, and she wanted to let go of it, wanted to throw it at him, to do anything, but not to take it, hell no, it felt dirty and wrong to even have it in her hand. Her lips parted to speak, but Vincent kissed her again, and this time, she had no choice but to accept it.

It was a strange thing, what happened. His mouth pressed against hers, his hot breath flowing into her mouth, the taste of him, the touch of his tongue against hers, so humbly requesting entrance, the feel of him so hopeful, so hesitant. She wanted to pull away, even felt her body weight start to shift back as reflex tried to put space between them, tried to reject what was happening.

It was like holding a block of ice to the side of a hot stove. The ice started to melt, against its will. Unable to withstand the strain, her mouth twisted to join with his, just to relieve the pressure. He took full advantage, pulling her closer and closer until she was sure she could feel every part of him, that he was touching every part of her at once.

Then, slowly, he pulled away. She felt a terrible betrayal when the sensation of a blush crept into her cheeks, and her hands, with a will of their own, still clung to him, reluctant. When had they ever grasped at him? She didn't know, didn't care. She yanked them away as soon as she noticed them, but it was too late.

He was smiling at her. Smiling in such a strange way, a way she had not seen that evening. It was so strange that he was going to leave now, and it really was going to be over.

He stepped away, reached into his pocket for his boarding pass, and took the half-dozen steps to the security guard to hand it to her. He tossed Callie one last look over his shoulder, went through the checkpoint, and disappeared into the crowd.

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Epilogue 

"This is impossible. She shouldn't be alive."

The monitor just slowly beep, beep, beeped. The patient in the bed was not out of danger, not by a long shot, but that heart just kept beating, and as long as it kept beating, there was life. It didn't show any inclination to stop.

Ray stood outside the intensive care unit, looking through the fiberglass window at the prone figure of Annie Farrell. Letting out a deep, stress-filled sigh, he turned and walked toward the waiting room area.

He hadn't been quite sure what he'd expected when he'd picked Callie up from the airport a little less than an hour ago. She'd called from a payphone, and she sounded so hollow, so distant, that he almost didn't recognize her voice. She'd also been remarkably serene about everything, level-headed and calm as she told him what had happened on the subway (although the rest of the details of the story he hadn't heard yet, and somehow doubted he wanted to). He'd gotten the paramedics to roughly the right place at the right time, and what they'd found was amazing.

Callie still didn't look right. She was so terribly pale, her hair was flush against her skull, in bad need of a good washing. Whenever Callie stressed, it seemed to go right to her hair, a trait she had never been happy with. Her voice was strained, her eyes were bloodshot, and her lips

Her lips were bruised.

"I can't believe he missed," she whispered to him as he sat down beside her.

Ray shook his head. "I saw the other bodies, Callie. This guy doesn't miss."

She wouldn't look at him. Her eyes were turned away, down, toward the tile floor. Her eyes seemed to be tracing the lines there, over and over, trying to find a pattern.

The doctor came out, still in his scrubs but with the mask and gloves disposed, a clipboard in his hand. He was shaking his head.

"I've seen a lot of things," he said, "but this one is for the history books."

Ray stood up, even though he had just sat down. He felt like a Jack-In-The-Box. "So what's the story?"

The doctor, his name was Lemming, met him straight in the eyes. "That woman had two bullets in her chest and one in her head. That kind of grouping didn't leave any room for doubt." The sharp eyes slid to Callie, but wisely didn't address her. "Something must have gone wrong, or it's a miracle, plain and simple."

"So she's going to make it?"

"If she makes it to noon, I'll be more confident," the man said. "The bullet in her brain missed the apex. It went to the right, toward the soft tissue. She'll need a lot of physical therapy and I doubt she'll ever practice law again, especially considering the two bullets in her chest are responsible for the lack of blood to the brain, which was where the real damage was done. Yet they also veered to the right, missing the major arteries, hitting her lung and the other passing through, tearing a nice hole in its own right but nothing we weren't able to repair and that time won't heal."

Ray looked down at Callie, and was startled to find her looking up at them, her eyes wide, haunted.

"This is impossible," Ray murmured, almost against his will.

Callie looked away again, her head shaking slightly. "Did he know?" she whispered.

The doctor was watching them both curiously, Ray noticed, and so he decided to remove the audience. "Thank you, doctor," he said with an air of finality as he sat down beside his sister. The man got the message and moved on, busy enough with his night.

"You don't know?" Ray asked. "You don't think it was deliberate?"

"Why would it be deliberate?" Callie said, still not looking at him. "Why would he do that?"

"He might have been…distracted," Ray tried, treading lightly.

Callie shook her head, her expression turning fierce. "No, he wasn't distracted."

"Look, Cal," Ray said gently, putting an arm delicately around her frame, "a professional like that, I mean…you don't make a mistake like that, it just isn't possible. The only way he could have done that was if it was on purpose. Like the only way a genius could possibly fail a test was if they knew all the right answers and deliberately picked the wrong ones."

The fierce expression didn't leave. "That doesn't make any sense, Ray. You don't…I mean, this guy…" She struggled for words, growing frustrated.

"Shh, Cal, it's okay, you don't have to talk about it yet," Ray said. "You've been through a lot. I want to get you somewhere safe. Why don't we go to Dad's?"

"Oh, God," Callie moaned, slapping her hand against her forehead. "Oh, God, Ray, don't tell Dad about this. He will totally freak out!"

Ray frowned. "Well, yeah, but –"

"No, no, I mean…" she finally looked up at him. "I had to take him to Dad's house. Before. Remember?"

Ray turned pale. "That _man_ was in Dad's _house_?"

"It's your fault, you _made_ me go," she muttered. Ray was almost relieved to find that that comment had a tone that sounded faintly normal.

"I knew you'd figure out a way to blame all of this on me," Ray said, taking her hand and pulling her upright. "Come on, we're going. You can tell me whatever you want, whenever you want. I'm just…" He pulled her closer to him, wrapping his arm tightly about her shoulder. "I'm just glad you're safe."

Callie nodded. Ray did not realize that the closeness between them, the tightness of his grip, which had always been comforting and familiar in the past, suddenly brought on new memories. And it was just as well that she didn't tell him.

8888888888

Vincent settled himself into his chair. First class all the way, he hated coach, it meant being smashed into a tiny place like a bunch of canned sausages. He liked the room in first class, he liked the food, he liked the quiet, and he also liked flirting with the stewardesses.

He sighed deeply as he turned away from the one who had been waiting on him, disinterested. He was right, he should never have gotten into Callie's cab. It had been a mistake, he'd known it from minute one, and yet he'd done it anyway.

Stupid. That was all it was.

He also knew that he was damn lucky to be alive after the evening's chaotic events. That didn't really bother him, though. There really _wasn't_ a good reason to live or to die, not for him, and the only thing that made it all bearable was the jazz, the improvisation, the rhythm and the lack of reason. But, after all, the past was the past, the future lay ahead of him, and he was on his way home, as far away from the stinking sinkhole of L.A. as he could be.

Yet…somehow…he knew that from now on, he would think of L.A. a bit more fondly, because of that one little star. The one who would probably never quite be able to shake off the feeling of his kiss. It was amazing how he could still so soundly believe that he was lost in space, and yet he had managed to crash into the singular body in the world that could affect him so uniquely.

Life never made much sense to him anyway. And he wasn't even going to use the word love in the context of himself. He shrugged it off, sliding the headphones back on, letting himself get lost in a sea of jazz, and trying not to think about that dance he'd shared with her, to the slow, seductive rhythm of a saxophone, in a jazz club he would probably never visit again.

Sometimes it was just too bad. And sometimes it wasn't bad at all.


	11. Deleted Scenes and Blooper Reel

I love DVD blooper reels and deleted scenes. I love them so much that I made one for "Lost In Space." I don't own any of the characters whose names appear in People Magazine on a regular basis, and please keep in mind that this is COMEDY, and JUVENILE comedy for that matter, so don't be offended, all bashing is done in good fun.

Disclaimer: Don't own anything, so don't sue.

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Opening scene: Inside the "barn," where the taxis wait.

_Crossword scene Callie and Max sit together_

Callie: So what's a nice guy like you doing driving a cab for 12 years?

Max: It's temporary.

Callie: Twelve years isn't temporary, Max.

Vincent: That isn't your line.

(_Max wets his pants_)

Writer: Chill out, Max, he's not here for you. Look, I told you to wait in the parking garage.

Vincent: (whimpers) But it's loooonely out there! And I'm bored.

Writer: Oh bloody hell...(sighs) Here, take these key cards and go play with them. See what kind of trouble you can get into.

Vincent: (skips away) Yay!

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Max: What's a five letter word for "behind?"

Lenny: Booty?

Callie: I want that guy fired. Can't we get Danny DeVito? At least he makes perversity look funny.

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Ext. Justice Building: Max and Annie's scene.

_(Annie hands Max her card_.)

Annie: In case you ever want to investigate...uh...something...or...I dunno...

Michael: Cut! That's "Investigate a fortune five-hundred company or argue cab routes," ok?

Max: (Drools on the card) Whatever, honey, I'll call you, we'll hook up.

Annie: Cool. (Walks away)

Michael: All right, that's it, you're both fired. Vincent, go to the next cab!

(_Vincent appears on the curb, looks around, and then heads toward Callie's cab.)_

Callie: Yippie!

Vincent: Cool, I might get some in this movie. Haven't done that in a bit. Not on screen anyway.

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Ext. Justice Building

(_Callie pulls up to the curb. She moves forward slowly, slowly...and then hits the car in front of her_.)

Callie: Oh, shit...cut! I told you I have poor depth perception!

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Int. Cab

Vincent: So how long do you think this will take?

Callie: What, I have Mapquest written on my forehead?

Michael: Cut!

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Vincent: (to Callie) So you're interested in criminals? Catching them, understanding them...undressing them? (gives sexy eyebrow-raise)

(_Audience stampedes the set. Within seconds, Vincent is sitting in the backseat, naked_.)

Michael: CUT!

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Vincent: How much do you make a night?

Callie: Three, maybe four hundred...

Vincent: I'll make it six hundred. Plus an extra hundred if you give me a lap dance...

Audience: Hell, we'd do that for free!

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Int. Cab

(_Callie looks into the back seat to see that Vincent has left his briefcase behind_)

Callie: Some people.

(_She looks up and down the alley. Then she reaches into the back seat and pick up the briefcase. Dragging it into the front seat, she opens it and finds...women's underwear_.)

Vincent (through the window): Knew you'd look!

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Ext. Alley

(_Callie sits in the cab and waits_)

_(A body comes crashing down from a broken window and lands on the cab. Callie looks up, annoyed, and then gets out of the cab.)_

_(Vincent runs into the alley)_

Callie: What kind of idiot hitman lets a body fall out a window?

Vincent: I know...doesn't make me look too cool, does it.

Callie: Get the writer. We are so fixing this.

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Int. Ramon's apartment

_(Ray Fanning enters, gun drawn, scoping the room. Big dramatic close-up on the face, until we reach the bedroom, where he sees...a dead body on the floor)_

Ray: What the fu? That's not in the script.

Writer: I changed it.

Ray: Why?  
Writer: Because any hit-man worth his salt is so not going to let a body fall out the window. I don't care where the guy is when he shoots him. You know how fast he'd have to be going to hit that glass and break it?

Ray: But what about the sub-plot where I play the by-the-book detective who puts all the pieces together and gets it all right?

Writer: You WANT to get shot at the end and die a cheap death?

Ray: Good point.

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Ext. Alley

Punk: Gimmie your fuckin' purse, bitch!

Callie: I'm sorry...are you sure you aren't Kid Rock?

Punk: Do I LOOK LIKE I'm Kid Rock?

Callie: Actually, yeah. Can I have your autograph?

8888888888

Ext. Alley

Vincent: Hey, Hommie, is that my briefcase?

_(The punks turn around, take one look at Vincent, and run away like screaming little girls.)_

Vincent: (picks up briefcase) That's what I thought.

8888888888

_(Vincent hauls the body of the Punk into the trunk)_

Callie: See, I told you he looked like Kid Rock.

Vincent: Just as well. I hate Kid Rock.

Kid-Rock: Hey!

_(Vincent slams down the hood. The Punk's fingers are in the way) _

CRUNCH

Callie: Ewww! I am not cleaning that up!

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Behind the Scenes

_Vincent and Callie sit in their chairs as they wait for the next take. Callie reaches over and takes the huge keychain/cardholder from his belt._

Callie: Doesn't this thing weigh a ton?

Vincent: Yeah, and it bangs against my hip all the time.

Callie: What the hell are all these things, anyway?

Vincent: Well, this one is to get me past security in the Justice Building...this is my preferred shoppers card from Ralphs...

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Ext. Gas Station

Vincent: Come on, I'll buy you a drink.

Callie: I'd rather you paid for gas. You see the price of this stuff?

Vincent: Holy shit! For that money, we may as well drink it!

8888888888

Vincent: ...this is the key to my mother's house, this is the key to my girlfriend's house, this card gets me a great discount at Kohl's, you know they have everything there...

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Vincent: Come on, Callie...there isn't any reason for there to be hard feelings between us.

Callie (Looks down): You sure?

_(Vincent looks down at the bulge in his pants. He just grins.)_

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Vincent: ...this is my Hot Topic card, they have really cool '80's stuff there, although I'm still waiting on some _Risky Business _merchandise to show up...

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Int. Parking Gargage Under the Jazz club.

_Vincent smooths out Callie's hair._

Callie: Hmmmm...(enjoying it immensely)

Vincent: Um...Callie?

Callie: Yeah?

Vincent: I think you have dandriff...

Michael: CUT!

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_Vincent smooths out Callie's hair._

Callie: (starts purring)

Vincent: Oh great...remember, I'm a sociopath, you're supposed to be afraid of me?

Callie: Since when was any of this about reality? So why don't we check out the shocks in the cab by rocking the back seat?

Vincent: Jazz first.

Callie: (pouts) Fine.

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_(Vincent walks down the hallway to the restrooms with Callie. Callie goes through the door. A second later, her hand reaches out, grasps Vincent by the lapels, and drags him in. A bunch of NOISES can be heard, and then Vincent comes out, blushing, disheveled, and his face smeared with lipstick.)_

Vincent: Get that woman another drink!

8888888888

Vincent: ...this is my Curves membership, they signed me up free even though it's for women only, I guess they figured it would be good for business...

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Int. Jazz Club

_(The table in front of Vincent, Callie and Daniel is laden with empty drinking glasses)_

Callie (smashed, raising her current empty glass into the air): Garcon! Another!

Vincent: How many have you had?

Callie: As many swallows as it takes to carry a coconut. Or something.

Vincent: You're not going to be able to drive.

Callie: I can drivehell, I can fly! (flaps her arms)

Vincent: But not legally.

Callie: You care about legal? You're a hit man!

Daniel: Excuse me?

Callie: Yeah, he's a hit man, he's going to get all friendly with you, and then like the bad-ass he thinks he is, he's going to make some cold remark about the guys who hired him, and he's gonna play you and make you think he might let you go because you play really good jazz, but in the end he'll put three in your forehead before you can blink, so take some advice, fat man, and run like hell.

Vincent: (sighs) She's just pissed at me because I wouldn't have sex with her in the back seat.

Callie: Damn skippy! (Bangs glass against the table) I said another!

8888888888

Vincent: ...this is my Sam's Club card, this is my Preferred Reader card from Borders, and this key is to the diary I keep in the top drawer of my dresser...

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Ext. Jazz Club

("The spark went through them both, back and forth a couple of times. It seemed that his lips were never going to let go...She stopped fighting, falling limp against him, only her willpower keeping her on her feet. She let her arms hang, then slowly drew them back to her body as he relaxed his grip, and then, when the kiss broke, she just stared at him, too shaken to speak.")

Vincent: Damn, this is so much more fun than kidnapping Jamie Foxx.

OR

Callie: Oh, so you shoot a guy, and _now_ you want to make out. That's just...gross.

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Ext. Jazz Club

_(Callie and Ray are on the phone, Vincent watching)_

Ray: I stumbled into a crime scene about an hour ago and now I'm getting dragged all over town.

Callie: Crime scene? What's going on?

Ray: Well, there was supposed to be this broken window and a bunch of glass in an alley, which made for a really compelling mystery, but then I got accosted by some psychotic, obsessive writer who was hell-bent on changing everything, and now my story line has been reduced to really boring background stuff.

Callie: Oh, I'd just wait it out. Things might get interesting pretty soon.

Ray: What, you know something?

Callie (looks at Vincent): Um, you're breaking up. Gotta go, bye.

Vincent: You know, I sometimes wonder why I don't just shoot you.

Callie: Because you want to screw me, remember?

Vincent: Yeah. Stupid writer, since when did I get a libido?

Callie: Since you entered the fanfic world, man. Now let's get on with that next snog scene, make Eccentric Banshee happy.

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Int. Callie's Father's House

Ray Sr: I'm going to totally embarrass Callie

Callie: Da-ad! Not in front of the good looking hit-man!

Ray Sr:by asking you if you're one of those guys that insists on girls being skinny as rails.

Vincent: I'm not. I like my women with...curves.

_(The ground begins to tremble as every single fangirl in the Collateral fandom rushes Vincent and effectively smothers him in a dogpile of girl-flesh.)_

Vincent: Cut!

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Int. Morgue

Widener: I just know how excited you get, Ray.

Ray: Fuck you.

Widener: No, this isn't a slash fic, we can't...but I'll keep it in mind for next time.

8888888888

Ext. Callie's Father's House

_(Vincent and Callie make out in front of the taxi)_

Callie: Why does this feel familiar?

Vincent: What are you talking about?

Callie: The way you're unbottoning my shirt. It's exactly like in _Eyes Wide Shut._

Vincent: I don't know what you're talking about.

Callie: Yeah, that scene where you went to that prostitute's apartment and couldn't find her, so you decided to have sex with her roommate instead! You were a really horny bastard in that movie.

Vincent: You are really spoiling the moment.

Callie: All of that to cheat on Nicole Kidman. That's really lousy.

Vincent: Forget it, I'm out of here.

Callie: And then you start dating that chick with the same last name as you! And then you dumped her! You seriously have problems with committment, you know that?

Michael: CUT!

8888888888

Vincent: ...and this is my Mission Impossible spy-card whenever I want to pretend to be a secret agent...

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Int. Abandoned Restaurant: Fed Scene

Widener: Richard Widener, L.A.P.D., narcotics.

Ray: Ray Fanning, L.A.P.D., narcotics...

Pedrosa: Yeah, yeah, stuff it, I'm only talking to you because I have to.

Widener: Yeah, thanks for seeing us, Frank.

Ray: Wipe that brown spot off your nose, Richard.

Pedrosa: What the hell do you two want, anyway?

Ray: Hey, aren't you the guy from Miami Vice?

Pedrosa: What if I am?

Ray: Well, you'd better be careful. You got shot on that show quite a bit...wouldn't want something like that to happen again.

(CUT ToClub Scene)

_(Pedrosa lies on the floor, remarkably calm for a guy who just got shot in the leg.)_

Pedrosa: Damn. I shoulda had a V-8

_(Ray takes a picture with his camera phone)_

Ray: Told ya!

8888888888

Int. FEVER

_(Bodies thrive and dance everywhere)_

_(Three girls dance together, the camera showing only their hips and legs.)_

_(Vincent pushes his way through them.)_

Girl #1: Hey, Tom Cruise just touched my ass!

Girl #2: I thought he was gay. Why would he touch your ass?

Girl #3: Tom Cruise is NOT gay!

_(Callie appears from behind and slaps girl #2. She falls unconscious, and then the three start dancing.)_

Girl #3: Tom Cruise isn't gay, but his girlfriend is!

_(Callie slaps girl #3 to the ground. Then she looks at girl #1)_

Callie: You got anything to add?

Girl #1: Hey, Tom Cruise just touched my ass. I could die happy now.

8888888888

_(Vincent pushes through the crowd. Suddenly a random fangirl throws herself at him.)_

Fangirl: Hey, is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

Vincent: (Shows it to her) It's a gun.

_(Fangirl screams and runs away. Vincent winks at the camera, points the gun at his mouth, and it squirts liquid into it.)_

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(_Vincent grabs the first bodyguard and knocks him to the ground. Then he grabs the second one and they start fighting.)_

_(Suddenly the music in the club changes from a fast-paced dance groove to a slow waltz.)_

_(Vincent and the bodyguard stop fighting and start to dance across the floor.)_

Bodyguard: Wow, your breath sure smells nice.

Vincent: Thanks, I put Scope in my squirt-gun.

Girl #2: To cover up that sperm-scent.

_(Vincent draws his squirt gun and fires it at girl#2. It hits her dead in the eye and she runs away screaming)_

8888888888

Vincent: ...this is my Walgreens card, this is my CVS pharmacy card, and this is my OSCO Drugs card...

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_Callie sits at the bar, licking a Martini glass dry._

Callie: Bartender, another!

Vincent: (appears from behind) Not again! More alcohol?

Callie: Well what do you expect me to do, waiting between make-out scenes?

Vincent: We can't do anything here, your brother is right over there, watching! (points to Ray, who is watching them from across the floor and waves)

Callie: He's not even my brother, he just plays one in this fanfic. You know, he's not bad looking, either. If you won't make out with me, maybe he will.

Vincent: Ewww!

Callie: What, haven't you learned from Star Wars that brother-sister love is perfectly natural?

Vincent: (sighs) Ok, maybe I was a little premature about that whole Jamie Foxx thing...

8888888888

(_Vincent stalks through the crowd, gun poised. He has his deadly-serious, no-nonsense look on his face)_

_(Suddenly Jason Lee _/Vanilla Sky/ _appears_)

Lee: Hey, dude, you made it! And they fixed your face!

Vincent: What?

Lee: Although they really fucked up your hair, man...

Vincent: What's wrong with my hair?

8888888888

_Vincent stalks through the crowd, gun poised. He has this deadly-serious_

_(Penelope Cruz appears)_

Cruz: David! You made it! And you look normal...except for that funky hair.

Callie: (from behind) I LIKE his hair!

Victoria: (from Soulless) So do I!

Collateral Fangirls: So do WE!

_(All the girls dogpile on Cruz and beat the crap out of her)_

Lee: Still have quite a way with the ladies, I see...

8888888888

Vincent stalks through the crowd...

_(Penelope Cruz appears again and throws her arms around him.)_

Cruz: Man, you're hot! Why the hell did I ever dump you?

Vincent: You didn't dump me, I dumped you, now let go, I'm busy.

Cruz: Doing what? Isn't this our club scene?

Vincent: Wrong movie, Penelope. Now go back to the desert with Matthew McConaughey.

Cruz: But I want to stay, and talk in my cute accent, and say eccentric things like, "I'll tell you in another life when we are both cats."

Callie: (suddenly appears) You want to see cats, girlfriend?

_Meeeeeeow!_

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Vincent: ...and this is my security card from when I pretended to be a Fed-Ex guy, I never told them I kept that...

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Ext. Fever

_Widener drags Callie out of the club. Callie goes to stand in the alley, watching Richard._

_Suddenly three bright red PAINT BALLS explode all over Widener's beige trenchcoat._

Widener: Hey!

Callie: (turns to Vincent and pulls out her own paintgun) GOTCHA!

_She fires at him and blue paint balls explode over his suit._

_Widener pulls out another paint gun and starts firing yellow paintballs at both of them. Then they run around screaming in the alley, firing paint-balls at each other and hiding among the cars to avoid getting hit._

_Ray comes out of the club. He looks up to the sky and shakes his head._

Ray: Fanfic actors...

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Ext. Fever

Vincent: Come on!

_(Callie looks back to Widener, covered with blue and red blotches of paint)_

_(Vincent grabs Callie and drags her backwards.)_

_(Callie slips and falls on her ass in the middle of the alley. She starts to laugh drunkenly and shows Vincent the paint on her foot that made her fall)_

Vincent: Damn paintballs!

Michael: CUT!

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Ext. Fever

_Callie gets into the car and puts it into drive. She presses the accelerator and crashes the cab head-first into another car, then bounces across the alley. The car pulls to a stop._

_Random fangirls dressed as crew run to the car._

Callie: I'm fine, I'm fine

Fangirls: Fuck you, get out of the way! Vinceeeeeent!

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_Callie starts up the car and starts to drive._

_Vincent realizes his door is still open._

Vincent: No, wait, wait! (reaches to close it)

_Callie jerks the car, Vincent loses his balance. His feet kick the door farther open and it slams against a nearby parked car. It SLAMS back against his foot and catches his ankle._

Michael: CUT!

Vincent: Great...how the hell am I supposed to carry you now?

Callie: (blushes) Oops...

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Vincent: ...and this is a laminated card of all the women I've been married to. Apparently I'm legally required to show it on a first date since I've been married so many timesyou know, girls need to know what they're getting into...

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Ext. StreetAfter the car crash

_Callie stands in the middle of the road, Vincent clutching her arm._

Vincent: Come on, run.

Callie: It says in the script you're supposed to throw me over your shoulder.

Vincent: (pointing to the ice-pack wrapped around his foot) Do I LOOK like I can carry you?

Callie: Geeze, what are you, Kid Rock now? Talk about grumpy...it was your own stupid fault.

Vincent: Just get moving. (grumbles) Max wouldn't have done this...

Callie: Yeah, but you would have left Max's ass back with the car, after beating him with a stick. And Max also doesn't have breasts.

Vincent: Neither do you.

_(Callie turns and slugs him)_  
Michael: CUT!

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Int. CabCallie's "Max" moment where she "flips" the car.

Callie: Go ahead, shoot me!

_(Vincent squirts his water-pistol at her. It hits her in the eye.)_

_Callie screams and the car veers and then flips over several times.)_

Vincent: (from the wreckage) Some days I feel like I'm STILL stuck in _Vanilla Sky._

Callie: (weakly) Tech support!

Vincent: Better not have smashed my face up, or the fangirls are going to get you...

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Random Taxi SceneCallie in front, Vincent in back.

Vincent: Respect the cock...and TAME the cunt!

Callie: Oh, God, now he's channeling Magnolia.

Vincent: I can't believe Jamie Foxx got nominated for an Academy Award and I didn't...(grumble grumble)

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Callie: What's this last card, the Happy Bunny?

_Vincent and Callie look at a picture of a Happy Bunny with an ax in its head. Underneath the caption reads, "Everything's great, thanks for asking"_

Vincent: Nicole (Kidman) sent me that. Think she was trying to tell me something?

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Writer: Ok, guys, I'm changing the car flipping scene.

Callie & Vincent: Why?

Writer: Well, as much as Eccentric Banshee likes it, I have to made SOME adjustments. I mean, after all, this fanfic isn't one of those "rip off the movie and just change who says whatever line" stories, it's a true parallel universe, so I don't think Callie would flip the cab, I think it would just spin around.

Callie: But I LIKE the car flipping scene. I took this job just so I could flip the car over!

Writer: Uh...it says here that you took the job so you could make out with Vincent.

Callie: Well...that too...

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Int. Law Office Night

_(The telephone rings. Annie picks it up)_

Annie: Joe's Mortuary, you stab 'em, we slab 'em.

Michael: Cut!

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_(The telephone rings. Annie picks it up)_

Annie: Whoever you are, you've got the wrong number.

Drunk on Phone: You mean this aint 1-900-HOTGIRL?

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_(The telephone rings. Annie picks it up)_

Annie: District Attorney's Office.

Ray: Yeah, is your refridgerator running? 'Cause if it is, you better go catch it!

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_(The telephone rings. Annie picks it up)_

Annie: District Attorney's Office

Ray: Better clear out, Niobe, Agents are on the way!

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Vincent: ...and this card gets me into a very exclusive gentleman's club, I won't give the name, but I'll tell you they use a certain long-eared animal as their symbol...

Callie: What, a jackass?

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Int. Law Office NIGHT

_Vincent stalks around the room. Suddenly there's a very loud THUD and Vincent hops away on one foot._

Vincent: Damn coffee table! Who put that there? I think I broke my shin!

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_Vincent limps around the room. He spots Annie. He backs her against the wall and then squirts his gun at her._

Annie: (spitting in disgust) What is that, Listerine?

Vincent: Scope.

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_Vincent backs Annie into a corner. He looks up to see a looming figure in the dark._

Vincent: Max?

Morpheus: No. And you messed with the wrong crew.

_(Annie jumps up and kicks Vincent square in the jaw)_

Annie: Some things never change.

Morpheus: And some things do. Now let's haul ass.

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Vincent: ...and this card gets me into The Pilots Club, did you know I can take you up in a plane and make you throw up if I wanted to?

Callie: You did that to me already with Top Gun.

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Int. Metro Train Night

_Callie and Annie hide behind the metal partitions, shivering in terror as Vincent gets closer and closer._

Callie: (looks up at the sign) Hey, we're going to Long Beach! I've always wanted to see the Queen Mary...

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_Callie and Annie huddle by the open doors to the waiting station. Vincent stands outside, gun poised and ready to fire._

_Callie tosses a red rubber ball into the platform. Vincent drops his gun and runs after it, barking._

Callie: Works every time...

Michael: CUT!

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Vincent: ...and this is my Vons Club card, this is my Trader Joe's card, and this is my Target card. I know I'm insanely rich, but you don't stay rich spending all your money. And I think...that's it.

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Int. AirportFinal Scene

Vincent: Well, this is goodbye.

Callie: After that kiss, now it's just goodbye? So I get left high and dry?

Vincent: Yeah, well, you see, the Writer did fanfics before this one, and she's only let me end up with one girl. And if I don't go meet her pretty soon, she's gonna get really, really pissed.

Callie: Another girl? You mean you flirted with me all this time and you're already with somebody else?

Vincent: I am a criminal, what do you expect? Besides, this is Alternate Universe, that other girl was in the regular universe.

Callie: Then why can't you stay? Since she's in the other universe and you're here.

Vincent: I never thought of that. Hey, why can't I stay?

Writer: Because you've got other fanfics you have to be in.

Vincent: Like what?

Writer: Well, Winged Seraph needs you for her fanfic "Effigy," although I'm not sure that's a romance, and Sargonne needs you for her fanfic "Vestige," and SYNB needs you to hustle your ass back to that club scene for her fanfic...

This last bit is really for Winged Seraph, but if you're at all familiar with my Secret Widow fic, it'll make sense to you, too

_(Suddenly, Trent Cash appearsthe bag dropper from the first scene of "Collateral")_

Trent: I'm here to pick up Vincent.

Writer: In a minute, you can have him. Why did Winged Seraph send you to get him and not Vanessa?

Trent: Well, she knew both you and she had a thing for me, so she figured I needed to show up at least once in your fanfic.

Writer: Oh, okay, you'll get no arguement from me. The more eye-candy in this fic the better...

Trent: She also mentioned something about Bruce.

Writer: Bruce? (blushes) Oh, that's nothing...

Trent: It didn't _sound_ like nothing.

Writer: Listen, Handsome Rob, get lost or I'll

Callie: Hey, I really hate airports, can we just finish this? Fine, Vincent, go to your other girlfriend, I don't care.

Vincent: If my girlfriend is in another reality, why can't I be with Callie?

Writer: What, you want to be with Callie, just like that? You kill people in front of her, traumatize her, threaten her, and now you want to get all sappy?

Callie: This is a fanfic, you know.

Writer: Not that kind of fanfic. Maybe in the sequel, but not today. Vincent, plane. Trent, door. And Callie, go comfort your hot brother.

Vincent: I still say that's gross.

Writer: See you all next time around, folks!


End file.
